


A Misfortunate Journey

by Loeka



Series: A Difference In Perspective [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Based on the extended movies, F/M, Family, Female Bilbo Baggins, Friendship, Gen, Romance, Slow Burn, Thorin's POV, and with additional Fili and Kili screentime, as Wizards do, basically a character study of Thorin, because Thorin worries about them, he worries about them a lot, there is also Gandalf, who meddles, without the initial tension between him and Bilbo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-17 06:42:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 58,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9309911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loeka/pseuds/Loeka
Summary: This is the Hobbit Tharkûn wishes to bring along? The Wizard actually expects this frail creature to somehow reclaim the Arkenstone without drawing the notice of Smaug?They’re doomed.





	1. Chapter 1

Song is what guides him to his destination at long last.

Thorin walks towards the source of music and is led to a round door set in a small hill, as unremarkable as all others passed before. Only when right in front of the picket fence surrounding the garden does he see the mark Tharkûn spoke of, placed low on the wood and glowing ever so faintly.

What clear directions the Wizard has given.

Thorin halts in front of the door and takes a moment to listen to the bright sounds coming from within.

They’ll have no aid on this quest. Most of him does not blame his kin for that, Thorin is well aware that this is a hopeless endeavor made by desperate Dwarves. Yet what other choice is there? The portents are clear, and even if they are false, others will have read them as well. Others will assess the risk, others will attempt to claim Erebor as their own.

Others might succeed.

Thorin cannot simply stand by and let that happen. He owes it to his people, to his father and his grandfather before him, to do all he can in order to reclaim their home.

Even if he can do no more than go on this quest doomed to fail.

Yet listening to the bright sounds coming from within, Thorin allows himself a moment of hope. Perhaps they’ll not fail. Perhaps they will succeed.

Perhaps there is still a true chance, no matter how small, that his people can return home after all this time.

Thorin knows this is nothing more than the wishful thinking of a fool.

His sister always does accuse him of being foolish.

The song ends and is replaced by laughter, ending the moment. Thorin raps the door, causing the voices inside to fall silent. It doesn't take long for him to hear hurried footsteps moving closer and for the door to open. Thorin feels a wry expression grow as he looks up at the Wizard who has done so.

"Gandalf," he greets in the Common Tongue as he enters the unexpectedly deep dwelling and gives his surroundings a cursory inspection. "I thought you said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way. Twice," he says with a pointed glance at Tharkûn, for his inspection has revealed he is the last to arrive.

Naturally, Tharkûn doesn’t react to the accusation in the slightest. No doubt the Wizard gave him awful directions on purpose, simply for his own amusement.

"I'd not have found it at all if not for that mark on the fence," Thorin finishes as he places his Shield and weapons to the side, pulling off his cloak off while nodding a greeting at Balin and Dwalin.

Thorin feels a fleeting smile grow as he nods a greeting at his sister-sons as well, both of whom eagerly return it. Fili is attempting to show some restraint, but Kili has no such compulsions. Not an unexpected reaction, given the truly childish enthusiasm they've shown since the moment he first announced his intentions.

Thorin ruthlessly suppresses the urge to order the two of them to return to Dis right this instant. Both his sister-sons are adults, if barely, and Thorin will not deny them what in all likelihood will be the only chance they’ll ever have at reclaiming their birthright. No matter how much he wishes them to remain safe.

But then, no place is safe.

Not since Erebor was lost.

Aside from that, there is the more practical fact that Thorin cannot afford to send away two of his best warriors.

This fact does not make it easier to resist the urge to order his sister-sons to return to Dis.

"Yet here you are, meaning all worked out in the end," Tharkûn returns cheerfully as he closes the door, before the Wizard spreads out an arm and gestures towards the Hobbit. Who is still looking at Thorin with wide eyes and flushed cheeks, as she has since the moment she first saw him. "Thorin Oakenshield, may I present Miss Bluebell Baggins. Bluebell Baggins, meet Thorin Oakenshield, the leader of our Company."

Thorin examines the Hobbit more closely than his cursory inspection from before. He is not impressed by what he sees.

She’s small, beardless and barefoot, as all Hobbits are. Pointed ears poke out of a riot of curls, and she wears a dress that makes it clear she’s not wearing a single weapon, hidden or otherwise. She looks delicate.

She looks weak.

No matter that he was expecting this, no matter that the entire position of burglar is a farce, Thorin still feels the futility of this quest drop down his shoulders all over again. This is the Hobbit Tharkûn wishes to bring along? The Wizard actually expects this frail creature to somehow reclaim the Arkenstone without drawing the notice of Smaug?

They’re doomed.

"So. This is the Hobbit," he states, making no effort to hide just how unimpressed he is.

"I would love to be intimate with you."

The Hobbit's frank declaration makes him falter, caught off guard by the sheer randomness of it. It also causes most of the others to let out a variety of noises, including choked and shocked sounds from Fili and Kili, a wildly amused snort from Dwalin, and what sounds suspiciously like a laugh disguised as a cough from Balin.

Meanwhile, the Hobbit has paled while gaining an expression of horror, and she is bringing up her hands, seemingly to cover her mouth with mortification. Except she continues talking before she can finish the gesture, and her hands flutter through the air instead.

“I am _so sorry_ , I never should’ve– I’ve a terrible habit of blurting out my thoughts you see, and sometimes those thoughts aren’t ones that should be said out loud, often times really, it’s one of my worst flaws, as evidenced by my wholly indecent propositioning of you, though the invitation is sincere and I do hope you’ll accept regardless of my rudeness because you are astonishingly attractive– I am going to stop talking now.” So saying, the Hobbit clamps her lips together and hides her hands behind her back, looking absolutely mortified as she averts her eyes to the floor.

For a moment, there is only silence. Thorin truly has no idea what to say in response to this unexpected turn of events. Then Fili and Kili howl with laughter, the sound quickly joined in by Dwalin and various others. Including a chuckling Balin, the traitor.

Thorin gives them a stern look and is gratified when all fall silent. Though Dwalin keeps giving him the particular grin that means he will never let Thorin live this down. Balin is more subtle, but the tilt of his brows betrays his own intention to never let Thorin forget this either. Wonderful.

The laughter makes the Hobbit appear even more embarrassed, yet there is a hint of a smile tugging at her lips, making Thorin’s suspicion rise. Were her words sincere, or has she done this on purpose? If so, to what end? To embarrass him?

If that was her intention, she failed.

He lifts his gaze towards Tharkûn as the Wizard clears his throat. Thorin is both unsurprised and unimpressed to see Tharkûn smile with deceptive serenity, acting as though those ancient eyes aren’t gleaming with mirth.

Wizards.

"Might I suggest we take this conversation somewhere more comfortable? Bluebell, if you'd be so kind?" Tharkûn directs at the Hobbit, startling her into lifting her head.

"Yes, of course,” she answers, before turning an anxious gaze to meet Thorin’s own. “Oh dear, you must think me a terrible hostess. I assure you, I'm not, truly," she says, and drops into a deep curtsy. "Welcome to Bag End, Master Oakenshield. Follow me, please, I will show you the way. And bring you something to eat, of course."

Before Thorin can even begin to think of a reply, the Hobbit darts forward on soundless feet, snatches the cloak draped over his arm, places it with the others and gives him a hesitant smile, before she darts deeper into the dwelling, somehow managing to slip between Bombur and Bifur, who are blocking one of the hallways.

"This way, please," her voice rings out from behind the two.

She’s light on her feet, Thorin will give her that.

"How did she get past–"

"–was hilarious, she actually–"

"–still food left after–"

"–like the lass, I really do."

Thorin keeps half an ear on the chatter as he follows after the Hobbit. While he remains unimpressed with Tharkûn’s choice, he will admit that she is not what he expected to find.

It remains to be seen whether this is for the better or the worse.

* * *

 

It is not for the worse.

"Think furnace, with wings. Flash of light, searing pain, then poof, you're nothing more than a pile of ash. "

“Oh dear. I... I need to sit down. Right now.”

It's not for the better, either.

* * *

 

Later that night, Thorin is seated outside the Hobbit's home, attempting to calm his thoughts.

He does not succeed.

In his hand he holds the key that once belonged to his father. The key Tharkûn has _seen fit_ to hold for as long as he pleased. As though it belongs to _him_ instead of Thorin.

 _Wizards_.

Thorin gazes at the moonlit hills instead of the key. He doesn’t need to see it, the feel of the metal is more than enough.

Thorin remembers how his father wore it around his neck at all times, hidden from sight. Remembers how, when his father believed none were around to see, he would take it out and would look at it with haunted expression. Thorin never asked why, the loss of their home had been too fresh. Too deep. Now, he regrets never having asked.

There are a great many things Thorin regrets having never asked his father.

He allows himself a weary sigh and closes his eyes. When Tharkûn first showed the key, Thorin was overtaken by a desperate hope that he might finally uncover what became of his father. It had taken all his willpower to keep from demanding answers right then and there. Instead, Thorin restrained himself until his Company started settling down for the night before demanding the Wizard tell him how he came by the key. This time Thorin did not allow Tharkûn to avoid the subject. This time he forced the Wizard to answer the question haunting him.

He'd not uncovered the answer.

His father gave Tharkûn the key before the Battle of Azanulbizar. The Wizard holds no knowledge of what became of his father either.

Part of Thorin prays that his father still lives. An even larger part, one Thorin ignores as best he can at all times, prays that his father is dead, for if he still lives, it means he is being held captive by Orcs.

It means he’s being tortured even now.

The sound of the door opening makes Thorin open his eyes and glare towards the entrance. If that Wizard actually has the nerve to come out here after what he has just revealed, Thorin will–

It is not Tharkûn. It's the Hobbit.

She closes the door and lets out a soft sigh, before turning towards where he is seated. As soon as she sees him, she startles.

"Oh, my apologies, I didn't realize anyone was out here. I thought everyone was settling down to sleep?" she partly declares, partly asks, hesitant and uncertain.

Thorin returns to watching the moonlit hills without replying. He is in no mood for conversation. Neither is he in the mood for company, but the Hobbit apparently doesn't pick up on this, for after another moment of hesitation, she joins him on the bench. At least she doesn’t speak, merely pulls out a pipe and sets about lighting it.

Thorin forces his mind away from his father now that he is no longer alone. Instead he examines his surroundings with a more conscious effort.

Faint lights are scattered throughout the darkness, denoting different dwellings. The silence is broken only by the wind and sounds of harmless wildlife. In the distance, Thorin can see a number of lights moving about. Hobbits on their way to somewhere, given the way the lights are moving. It’s a peaceful night, calm and quiet.

It unsettles him almost as much as his confrontation with Tharkûn did.

Thorin knows this to be an irrational reaction, but he’d rather distrust all indications of safety than be caught unaware when danger does strike.

Danger always strikes. The less expected it is, the harder it hits. Still, this place is clearly unused to any form of hardship. So unused, in fact, that Thorin can't help but feel both envy and resentment.

His people suffer while these Hobbits do not.

But that is unfair of him. It’s not the fault of these Hobbits that his people are suffering. In fact, Hobbits are the only people his kin can trade with without worry of being cheated. It’s rare for trade to happen, very rare, Hobbits have little need for the skills his people can offer. But when it does occur, Hobbits always pay the agreed upon price in full. They also agree to prices that are actually worth the time and effort his people put into their work.

For that alone, Thorin likes the small folk greatly. No matter that he encountered no more than a handful before coming here.

He wishes Tharkûn had chosen a different Hobbit to accompany them. Wishes even more that Tharkûn chose no Hobbit at all, for there are none more unsuited to facing hardship. As evidenced by the very bench Thorin is seated on, the furniture created with nothing but comfort in mind. The craftsmanship is solid, true, but it’s not designed to withstand adversity. Everything in the Hobbit’s home is the same, extremely comfortable and completely unsuited to weathering hardship. Just like the people who created it.

No, Thorin has no desire to bring any Hobbit along. Unfortunately, Tharkûn has made it clear he’ll only lend his aid if Thorin allows a Hobbit to accompany them, and Thorin cannot afford to send away the kind of help a Wizard will bring. The kind of help that is worth the price of having a burden on the road.

But why, of all Hobbits there are, has Tharkûn chosen this one?

Thorin examines the Hobbit from the corner of his vision as she continues to smoke her pipe, absently taking note of the distinctive smell of whatever it is she’s smoking. While it's not tobacco, he does recognize it. Tharkûn smokes it as well, and vehemently refuses to share whenever one dares to ask.

Thorin is far more concerned with the Hobbit’s appearance than with what she’s smoking. In the moonlight, she manages to appear even softer, and thus, even more fragile. She couldn’t look more unsuitable for the road if she tried. Though with any luck, the Hobbit will soon realize this as well and return home.

Thorin does not believe in luck. He does, however, believe in misfortune.

The Hobbit, whose cheeks have visibly darkened even in the dark, is giving him frequent glances, apparently attempting to be subtle. Emphasis on attempt.

He wonders why she decided to join their quest, when she’d nearly fainted from reading the contract. True, Thorin had soon realized that Tharkûn did not even bothered to inform the Hobbit of what this quest would entail when he'd invited her to join, but the fact remains that she almost fainted merely from _reading_ what could happen when facing Smaug.

Thorin had been convinced that the Hobbit, who'd needed a fair amount of time afterwards to decide on her final answer now that she had all the facts, would decline to join. Unfortunately, she did not. In hindsight, he should’ve seen that coming. Having her decline of her own free will would have made things far too easy.

"Why did you agree to join?" he asks, deciding to indulge his curiosity. Though if she did so because he is "astonishingly attractive", Thorin will waste no time in telling her just what a fool she is.

His question startles the Hobbit into turning her head towards him. "Your song brought tears to my eyes, how could I not agree after hearing it?" she returns before she even finishes recovering from her surprise. Thorin turns to face her as well and raises a derisive brow. That reason is but a fraction better than agreeing because of an attraction towards him. Which means it’s still one of the worst possible reasons there is.

The Hobbit’s blush deepens, and she clears her throat uncomfortably while her rapidly tapping her pipe. "By which I mean, that is... Oh bother," she finishes with a grimace, before taking a deep drag of her pipe and letting the smoke out slowly.

Thorin might've been amused by her reaction if they'd not been talking about this particular topic.

"So you'll throw away your life because you enjoy our singing," he returns, unimpressed.

"Of course not," the Hobbit rebukes with a small frown "And truly, it is most unhealthy to start an adventure with a bleak outlook like that," she actually has the nerve to chide him. Thorin gives her a disapproving look.

"I speak only the truth. You'll not last even a week on the road."

His words make the Hobbit's eyes narrow and her blush disappears as she straightens her back. Apparently she finds the truth to be insulting. Ignorant people always do.

"I'll have you know you won't find a better traveled Hobbit than me in all the Shire, or indeed, even Bree. Why, I made it all the way to Rivendell once, so I'll ask you kindly to keep such ignorant comments to yourself, for they are patently untrue," the Hobbit declares, not quite snapping but approaching it nonetheless.

If this is the most traveled Hobbit there is, Thorin would hate to meet a Hobbit with no experience at all. Still, it's good to know that she might not be a _complete_ burden. Might.

"If you've experience with the road, your decision to throw your life away because you enjoy our singing is even more foolish," he counters, for it’s one thing to agree to come along in ignorance, another thing entirely to do so when she has an inkling of the true dangers they’ll face.

The Hobbit huffs and gives him what he believes to be an attempt at a glare.

"I didn't agree because I _enjoy your singing_ ," she denies in a voice edging towards sarcasm and falling wholly short of it, "I did so because you've lost your home, and your desire to reclaim it has moved me in ways few things ever have,” she finishes more calmly.

Thorin is almost touched except for all the ways he’s not.

This is not her fight.

"That is the most important reason, but I will admit that Gandalf asking me to join plays a part as well," the Hobbit continues before he can tell her this.

"Explain," Thorin orders, wondering what the Wizard has to do with this.

The Hobbit gives him a considering look while one of her hands drums the bench, apparently debating on whether to answer or not.

She decides to answer. "Gandalf once asked my mother to join him on an adventure, and she always spoke fondly of that time. She considered it her best adventure in fact, and I... I suppose I wish to honor her memory by doing the same. I realize this might sound silly to you, given your own motivations, but even if they are simple, these are my reasons for accompanying you."

Thorin does not find this reason to be silly at all. The Hobbit, on the other hand, he considers to be a complete fool.

"I doubt your mother would want you to throw your life away," he states, making no effort to hide his disapproval. It rankles that this Hobbit would give up her home so easily when Thorin's greatest desire is to return to his own.

To have his people return.

The Hobbit lets out a frustrated sound and attempts to give another glare.

"Of course Mother would never want that, but she loved adventuring even more than I, and she knew, as do I for that matter, that adventures are never safe, no matter how short they are. So given that Gandalf will never again invite me on another one, and given that your own reason for going is the most noble one I can imagine, I've decided to accompany you, no matter the dangers I am well aware we will face. And now I ask that you respect that decision, for it is mine and mine alone to make," she finishes with unexpected firmness, before bringing up her pipe and taking rapid, even aggravated puffs.

She does not lack conviction, at least. Which, while admirable, is not a good thing. It greatly lessens the odds of her soon deciding to abandon this journey. Still, she’s made her determination clear, and Thorin will respect that.

It remains to be seen how long the Hobbit will be able to keep up that determination. He hopes it won’t be overlong.

Given that this would make things far too easy, Thorin is certain that the Hobbit will keep up her resolve for an aggravating amount of time.

"Very well," he agrees instead of saying such, and returns to watching his surroundings. From the corner of his vision, he sees the Hobbit look at him with confusion, before she smiles and returns her own gaze to their surroundings as well.

Silence falls. Yet soon the Hobbit starts glancing towards him again, appearing more nervous with every moment that passes.

"What is it?" he asks, a little curious as to what is making her act like this.

His words make the Hobbit snap her head towards him, before she blushes. Brightly.

Thorin feels a flicker of bemusement. That makes it quite clear what she is thinking of.

The Hobbit clears her throat and one of her hands drums the bench rapidly. She looks so awkward that Thorin’s faint bemusement grows.

"...Might you be interested in accepting my, ah, earlier proposal?"

Thorin looks at her pointed ears, her thin eyebrows and small nose. Smooth skin, delicate features, slender hands, and a body existing entirely out of curves.

The Hobbit is not exactly attractive.

"No," he declines. The Hobbit hesitates, apparently uncertain of how to react to his answer.

"...If I may be so bold to ask, why not?" she eventually returns.

"I do not find you attractive," he replies, and only realizes how blunt that sounds after he's already spoken. Refreshingly, the Hobbit is not insulted, something he's long ago come to expect from all those not his kin. Instead she relaxes, all awkwardness gone in an instant.

"Fair enough," she tells him with a smile, before she returns her gaze back towards their surroundings and takes an indulging drag of her pipe. Even her hands have halted their nervous fidgeting.

Thorin debates briefly whether he should tell her that she is not unattractive either, for aside from her ears, she truly is not. She's too... different for that. Her upper body is too narrow, her breasts too large, her hips too wide, and her hands too thin. She’s plump, true, yet where this results in robustness for his own people, the Hobbit somehow manages to look delicate instead. Not in the way of Elves, those are just plain ugly. The Hobbit is... dainty, is the best description he can think of. Dainty and fragile. And impossibly smooth skinned, even more so than Men. Another thing Hobbits have in common with Elves. Though unlike their ears, this does not inspire instant revulsion. And unlike Elves, Hobbits grow hair on their feet. Feet that are incredibly large, especially in comparison to the rest of their small bodies.

The final image is so dissimilar to his own people that, aside from the ears, it inspires neither revulsion nor attraction.

In the end, Thorin has no desire to continue this line of conversation, or any other kind of conversation for that matter. He keeps silent, tracing the contours of the key as he lets his mind wander over what is to come.

It is not a pleasant prospective.

Eventually, the Hobbit puts out her pipe and turns to face him with a smile. "I believe I will retire. We’re to leave quite early, after all. I do hope you find your accommodations satisfactory, though if not, please don’t hesitate to call upon me."

"They are more than adequate. My thanks for your hospitality, Mistress Baggins," he returns sincerely. While she'll be a burden on the road, Thorin will not deny that she has been an exemplary host. She has ensured good food and comfortable sleeping arrangements for all, and has gone out of her way to ensure every need of his Company is met.

The Hobbit’s smile grows. "You are most welcome, Master Oakenshield," she says, before giving a nod of farewell. "I bid you goodnight and pleasant dreams."

"And to you as well," he returns with a nod of his own, feeling his lips curve up with a burst of black humor. Given the circumstances, there's no chance of him dreaming of anything other than fire and death.

The Hobbit blushes yet again. She clears her throat, gives a final smile, and takes her leave, closing the door behind her. Thorin allows himself a tired sigh now that he is alone again and returns his gaze forward, tracing the contours of the key once more. He’ll retire soon as well. No matter the upcoming night terrors, he plans to take full advantage of the comforts the Hobbit has offered. Comforts he’ll most likely never experience again.

He’ll retire soon. But not yet. Instead, Thorin closes his eyes and allows himself to remember his home.

The air always held a taste of earth and metal, warmed by the great forges below. Soft light played across of the rivers of gold running through the halls, illuminating the carvings covering every inch of stone, each hall distinct and unique. Metal polished until it gleams like water, gems so finely cut they outshine the stars themselves.

And everywhere, from the deepest mines below to the highest residences above, the sounds of his people as they go about their day. Working their crafts, wandering the markets, laughing and talking and _safe_. Enough food for all, enough warmth and space, enough wealth to make them thrive.

For just this night, Thorin allows himself to hope that he might one day see his home again as it was meant to be.


	2. Chapter 2

To Thorin's great surprise, the Hobbit is not a burden.

Her traveling outfit consists of sturdy trousers and a warm vest, the cut designed for easy movement, and her coat is thick and made to withstand the elements. Her hair is bound to keep it out of the way, and her pack is light and filled with practical supplies. She even brings along two... well, Thorin supposes they are adequate enough short swords for a Hobbit, no matter that to a Dwarf, they’re pathetic daggers at best. The quality of the blades is severely lacking of course, Man-made as they are, but they’re still weapons.

The first evening they make camp, the Hobbit demonstrates she knows how to use those weapons as well. She never uses more than one at a time, yet that makes the fact she’s brought along two even more pleasing. The Hobbit actually realizes how easy it is to lose a weapon in a fight, and for that reason she’s brought along a spare. No more than one, true, but that’s already far more than Thorin expected of her.

The Hobbit is no warrior in any sense of the word, is not even a fighter in the way all Dwarves are. Yet she doesn’t need to be.

What she needs to be, is be agile enough to not get in the way of the the rest of them during battle.

The Hobbit is agile enough. Her entire "fighting style" is based around creating an opening so she can get away. She’s fairly decent at creating those opening as well, courtesy of the fact that she fights dirty.

The first thing she does when demonstrating her ability to defend herself is not, as expected, to use a blade. Instead, she kicks Fili right in the stones. Apparently Hobbit feet are made of sterner material than the rest of their bodies, for to the great entertainment of the rest of his Company, her kick instantly causes Fili to drop to the ground with a pained whimper, despite the armour he wears.

Even Thorin cracks a smile at the sight. Truly, his sister-son was asking for it to happen, for on that first day, he and Kili kept mercilessly teasing the Hobbit over her attraction to him. The Hobbit became increasingly flustered and more annoyed the longer they did. It turns out that Hobbits do not speak bluntly of such things. The fact she herself had been incredibly blunt in her own proposal is apparently considered to be the height of rudeness by her own people. As she explained to Fili and Kili in one of her numerous attempts to get them to drop the topic, yet the very politeness of her rebukes only spurned his sister-sons on to cruder heights. The Hobbit soon sought the aid of Tharkûn, but the Wizard merely smiled and told her that Dwarves are a straightforward folk, which is true, and that she needs to be able to handle this if she’s to make it to the end of their journey, which is also true.

It is for this very reason that Thorin, and Balin for that matter, did not put a stop to Fili and Kili’s behavior either. If the Hobbit cannot even handle harmless jesting, she has no place in his Company.

That first night, the Hobbit proves she can handle it. Not merely by kicking Fili in the stones, either. Afterwards, she requests Kili to switch places with his brother, to, in her own words, _prove it was not mere luck, you see_.

To the continued entertainment of the others, Fili readily agrees, against Kili’s sudden protestations.

It takes a surprisingly short time for the Hobbit to kick Kili in the stones as well. Impressive, seeing as Kili, unlike Fili, knew what to expect. Though a large part of the Hobbit’s success can be attributed to the fact that Kili was hesitant to use real force against her. Still, the mock spar shows that she is quick and fights sensibly.

Dwalin, of course, immediately moves to take on the Hobbit next. Unlike Kili, Dwalin holds no reservations in turning the demonstration into a full blown spar in so far as the constraints of being on the road allow. That is when it becomes clear that the Hobbit is no warrior in any sense of the word. She is, however, adept at dodging and deflecting, taking full advantage of her short height, and using everything from nails to teeth to fight back.

It still doesn’t take long for Dwalin to disarm and immobilize her, of course. Which he accomplishes by caging her within his arms and lifting her from the ground. Amusingly, the Hobbit performs a headbutt in an effort to get free.

She greatly regrets doing that.

It comes as no surprise that Dwalin is rather charmed by the unexpected ferocity shown by the Hobbit. After the first evening, it's not unusual to find him in conversation with her.

As for his sister-sons, they never again bring up the topic of her attraction towards Thorin. Neither does anyone else. In no small part because the Hobbit, who actually apologizes to his sister-sons the next morning for the pain she caused them, follows up that apology with a pointed mention that she has already thought of a number of much better alternatives to use in the event a similar situation were to occur.

Aside from proving she has enough skill that she might actually survive in battle, the Hobbit also proves she was not exaggerating when she claimed to be an experienced traveler. She’s clearly unused to traveling in a group this size, but she falls into the general routine of journeying with ease. And though she has no experience with riding a mount, she learns fast and does not complain about the subsequent saddle sore. Neither does she complain about the pace set, the lack of comforts or the duties assigned to her. Hobbits might not be as strong as Dwarves by far, but Thorin will not let her use that as an excuse to avoid pulling her weight. She is expected to keep up and contribute, as everyone is.

The Hobbit meets those expectations.

She brings no particular value to his Company, performs no task one of the others could not easily take over. But she is not a burden. She doesn't slow them down.

For that alone, Thorin admits to himself that he was wrong. It seems Tharkûn has chosen wisely after all. He still wishes that the Wizard hadn’t forced him to bring along a Hobbit of course, but given that Tharkûn’s insistence on the matter remains unyielding, Thorin supposes that having one who is not a burden is the best he can ask for.

In fact, Thorin has but one true complaint about the Hobbit. She is _awful_ at keeping watch. She focuses on the wrong sounds, becomes distracted far too often, and is offensively optimistic about what could be lurking in the dark. Given that there are thirteen others than can keep a decent watch, himself included, this is but a minor complaint. One no different than those Thorin has about the rest of his Company.

Oin insists on being allowed to take watch, stubbornly ignoring the fact that his lack of hearing makes him almost as awful at is as the Hobbit is. Gloin refuses to take watch until he has finished cleaning not just his axes but every single piece of armour.

Ori, Nori and Dori spend far too much time on their braids in the mornings, always the last to be ready to depart. Though in the case of Ori, this is caused by Dori’s insistence that he look “presentable” and Ori’s inability to say no to his older brother, rather than any vanity from the young Dwarf himself.

Bifur dismounts whenever they pass by a large patch of flowers so he can, in his own colorful words, get a decent snack. Bofur has a habit of wandering too far off whenever they take a break. And Bombur eats too much, tasting enough of his own cooking it is almost as though they’re feeding a Company of fifteen instead of fourteen.

Or rather, a Company of sixteen, for the Hobbit eats enough for two. However, given she explains and Tharkûn confirms that Hobbits normally eat _seven_ meals a day, Thorin cannot complain about the amount she requires. Relatively speaking, she's being frugal. Unlike Bombur.

Strictly speaking, Bombur is not being excessive. He’s merely on the constant verge of becoming so.

The very meticulousness of it grates on Thorin's nerves in the worst of ways.

As for Tharkûn, Thorin was already expecting the Wizard to annoy him in a variety of ways, and Tharkûn does not disappoint. He is a Wizard, after all. Though his annoyance with Tharkûn all has to do with the Wizard’s character, Thorin can find no complaint in his skills.

The others have many habits that bother Thorin as well of course, but as long as those do not impact their safety or efficiency, he has no true cause to complain. No matter how annoying some of their habits.

Such as Nori’s aggravating love for sneaking up on others, Dori’s constant need to comment on all their appearances, and Ori’s perpetual switching between being too shy or being too eager. Bombur’s deceptive meekness hides a contrary streak a mile wide, Bofur cannot let a single day pass without bursting into song, and Bifur is incapable of talking without cursing. Thorin had not cared about that last one way or another at first, but after listening to it day in and day out, the cursing is starting to become annoying at times. As is Bofur’s singing. Thorin enjoys a good song as much as the next Dwarf, he truly does, but Bofur sings multiple songs  _every single day_. Then there is Oin’s sudden total lack of hearing whenever he doesn’t care for what’s being said, Gloin's habit of taking offense far too easily, and the Hobbit’s incomprehensible fondness for Elves.

Traveling. There’s nothing like it for getting to know others.

As for Balin and Dwalin, Thorin has known them for too long to be caught off guard by any of their behavior. The ways they annoy him are all familiar. It should be the same for Fili and Kili, but his sister-sons have always possessed a talent for surprising him. As often for the worse as it is for the better.

On this journey, they manage to surprise him in the worst way yet.

He cannot believe they actually joke about _Orcs_. Even their youth and ignorance doesn’t excuse that. In fact, it makes their actions even worse.

Have he and Dis taught them nothing?

Still, Thorin is satisfied with his Company and the progress they’re making. Yes, there are more than a fair number of things about them that annoy him, but all work well together, and generally speaking, the atmosphere is pleasant. Too lax at times, but Thorin ensures that never lasts overlong.

There is the normal friction that comes from constantly living together and needing to keep up a steady pace. Sometimes that friction flares up. Yet nothing grows beyond minor spats, easily resolved and with no lasting grudge forming. Most of the time his Company is merry, in ways Thorin always enjoys seeing his people be. Even more so when those people include his sister-sons and his two oldest friends.

Unexpectedly, Thorin finds himself enjoying this journey, if only in small and meaningless ways. As expected, things go wrong.

He was not expecting the Mountain Trolls, though.

* * *

 

"What did you do." His flat demand makes Fili spin around with an expression Thorin knows far too well.

_I and or my brother did something incredibly wrong, and we are now attempting to right this wrong by way of foolish scheme doomed to failure so as to prevent you from finding out about it._

The fact that Fili is alone in attempting to rope Bofur, who was supposed to be on watch, and Nori and Ori, who should've been sleeping, into that scheme, does not bode well. It means he and Kili feel it too dangerous to leave whatever disaster they’ve created unattended. Though it also means they feel it safe enough to split up, so the situation is probably not _too_ catastrophic.

On the other hand, these are his sister-sons, and Thorin learned long ago that their definition of the word “safe” is astonishingly lacking. They’re far too much like their mother in that regard.

"We didn't do anything," Fili denies on childish habit. Thorin gives him a look that shows just how unimpressed he is by that. Fili winces as he realizes how immature that reaction is as well.

Bofur, Ori and Nori have the good sense not to interfere, watching the proceedings with interest instead. And, in the case of Ori, with some nervousness as well.

"Kili and I... might've run into some trouble with the ponies. But it's really nothing to worry about," Fili continues far too casually. Thorin's sense of dread grows. "Just a minor issue, we have it completely under control. In fact, I'm sure Kili and Bluebell have already solved it."

Fili's words make Thorin glance reflexively towards where the Hobbit is supposed to be sleeping, only to discover her absence, something he curses himself for missing before now. The fact that the first thing he saw after waking was his scheming sister-son and that he was immediately distracted by the trouble that means, is no excuse for his oversight, and Thorin quickly does a headcount of his remaining Company. Mercifully, aside from Kili and the Hobbit, and the Wizard of course, all of them are here.

"I was just asking these three if they'd be willing to help solve our minor issue on the off chance that Kili and Bluebell haven't sorted it yet, though of course I'm sure they already have–"

"Fili," Thorin orders in a tone that means his sister-son will come clean right this instant.

Fili hesitates for the briefest of moments, before his shoulders slump with defeat. Good.

"Kili and I... lost four ponies. But we're already in the process of getting them back," he adds as though this will inspire actual comfort.

Thorin stares. Four ponies. Fili and Kili somehow managed to lose _four_ ponies.

And people wonder why Thorin blames his sister-sons for his gray hairs.

Fili, mercifully, doesn’t say anything more, allowing Thorin the time needed to reign in his temper.

"...And where, exactly, have these ponies disappeared to?" he manages to demand in a calm and steady voice.

Fili grimaces, his gaze skittering to the side in a way that means he doesn’t want to answer because he knows his reply will make the loss of the ponies seem insignificant. Thorin braces himself for the worst.

"They haven't actually disappeared, just been relocated. To a nearby camp. Which belongs to..." Fili swallows harshly and his brows fly up with sudden realization, before he becomes not merely concerned but _alarmed_. Thorin's own fear turns to mithril, the last vestiges of sleep obliterated in an instant.

If _Fili_ believes there is something to be alarmed about, it means they are all in danger.

"The camp belongs to Mountain Trolls. Three of them, in fact," Fili finishes in a weak voice as Thorin's jaw drops.

Mountain Trolls. _Three_ Mountain Trolls are nearby, and his sister-sons are attempting to _keep it a secret_.

He and Dis really have taught them nothing.

"Wait, you wanted us to steal back the ponies from _Trolls?_ " Nori demands with a pale echo of Thorin's own disbelief, snapping him out of his shock.

"Aye, I'm with Nori. Not the brightest of ideas, that," Bofur agrees because he’s not a complete and utter _child_ , and as Fili opens his mouth to speak, Thorin gives him a fierce glare. If his sister-son actually tries to justifyhis stupidity, Thorin truly fears for what he'll do in return.

Fili snaps his jaw shut and keeps quiet.

Now he shows a sliver of sense.

"Bofur, Ori, Nori, wake the others and prepare for battle," Thorin commands, no time to waste. The three snap to attention and quickly follow out his orders. Thorin resumes glaring at his moronic child of a sister-son.

"And you. You will tell me _exactly_ what you and your brother did," he orders in a voice that makes Fili flinch, crestfallen, hurt, and deeply ashamed. Thorin feels not a shred of compassion, for Fili had been planning to take on _three_ Mountain Trolls with no more than a handful of Dwarves, and worst of all, _without informing Thorin_.

It was a mistake to bring his sister-sons along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have noticed, I’m taking some liberties with the timeline here. Why? Because the timeline for the Troll incident makes no sense whatsoever. In the movie, Bilbo brings dinner to Fili and Kili, meaning the sun hasn’t set that long ago, yet the entire Troll incident takes maybe, what, an hour from start to finish? By all rights, it should’ve still been the middle of the night, not morning.
> 
> So yeah, my own headcanon is that Gandalf and Thorin argued, then Gandalf stalked off and the Company went to sleep. Fili and Kili were woken a little before dawn by whoever was on watch because it was their task to get the ponies ready for travelling. And Bilbo, who was having trouble sleeping because of Gandalf’s absence, decided to join them after waking up yet again. The same thing happens here, only with Bluebell instead of Bilbo.


	3. Chapter 3

Thorin’s conviction that it was a mistake to bring his sister-sons along only grows as Fili explains how he and Kili didn't even notice they were two ponies short until they'd finished saddling the remaining twelve, despite the clear trail of destruction leading away from the ponies. They realized their loss just as the Hobbit, who’d been having trouble sleeping because of the Wizard’s absence, decided to join them.

The three followed the trail of destruction and discovered their missing ponies in a camp occupied by two Trolls, arriving just in time to witness a third Troll return with another two of their mounts. Then, for some utterly incomprehensible reason, his moronic sister-sons decided that it would be an _excellent_ idea to send the Hobbit into the camp, alone, to try to reclaim their ponies. And the equally moronic Hobbit actually went along with their plan.

Unbelievable. Literally, Thorin is having genuine difficulties in comprehending the consecutive string of stupidity leading up to this catastrophe.

Of course, it’s not enough for there to be three Trolls, oh no, that would be far too easy.

These are _intelligent_ Trolls.

A mindless Troll is dangerous enough all on its own, even for a party their size, never mind three of them. But three intelligent ones? Three Trolls, each capable of speech, and thus, capable of strategy and cunning, no matter how rudimentary?

Thorin is planning to gather Kili and the Hobbit, before getting as far away from here as is possible with their remaining ponies. Battle is to be avoided at all cost, for if it does occur, the odds of at least several of his Company dying are certain.

Of all the times for the Wizard to wander off, why does it have to be now? This is exactly the kind of situation Thorin brought him along for in the first place!

So it makes perfect sense that Tharkûn has chosen now of all times to wander off.

Still, Thorin has a plan. A simple and easy one. Except there is a problem with this plan.

They are unable to locate the Hobbit.

Thorin and the others have hidden in the bushes on the edge of the camp, able to come so near courtesy of the argument the Trolls are having, their voices having masked the sounds of their approach. Kili, hiding on the opposite side of camp, was located when his moronic sister-son showed a wholly unexpected shred of sense and signaled them. The Hobbit, however...

Thorin attempts to strain his eyes further. He knows it’s useless to try to hear her, the Hobbit moves too silently for that. Trying to spot her by sight is the only hope they have of finding her. A few times he believes he catches a glimpse of her, but those could’ve just as easily been tricks of the fire.

What perfect time to discover that Tharkûn was not exaggerating when he claimed that Hobbits can move around unseen when they so choose.

Thorin gives Fili a warning glare as his sister-son shifts his weight in a way that means he is growing impatient. Fili settles down in an instant. Good. Thorin will not allow his sister-son to make this disaster even worse by being overeager to fix it.

Except, of course, the situation becomes worse regardless. In the form of the fence around the ponies swinging open without warning, and the terrified animals waste no time in bolting.

Naturally, of all the possible directions the animals could choose to flee in, they choose to charge right into the middle of his Company, forcing them to scatter so as to avoid being trampled. Which puts them in sight of the Trolls.

"Our mutton!"

"How did– wait, what's that?"

"Dwarves! Oh, I love Dwarves, they're so crunchy."

"Get them!"

Battle has become unavoidable, at this range they stand no chance of outrunning the Trolls, so Thorin lets out a war cry and leaps forward to strike at the enormous hand reaching for a fallen Bofur, the rest of his Company throwing themselves into battle as well.

The next moments are nothing but a blur, the heat of battle taking over. His mind is focused on nothing but the immediate, attack and defend, keep track of his sister-sons and his fellow Dwarves, aid them when necessary, ensure none are fatally wounded, spare a single thought to curse the thickness of those thrice damned hides, trust Dwalin to cover his back and cover his friend’s in return.

It is chaos, it is madness.

It’s going surprisingly well. None have even been seriously injured yet.

Had Thorin been able to spare more thought on the matter than that, he would’ve been expecting something as what happens next.

"Drop your weapons or we rip it apart!"

Thorin looks up just in time to see two Trolls lift a terrified Ori by his arms and legs, in a way that leaves no doubt they mean their threat of ripping him apart literally.

"Ori!" The simultaneous cries come from Nori and Dori. Mercifully, Dwalin is fast enough to catch Nori in a headlock, preventing him from charging forward and getting Ori killed. Oin and Gloin do the same for Dori, though the two are unfortunately forced to let go of their weapons in order to accomplish this. Even then, Dori almost manages to break free of their hold before rationality regains the upper hand.

Thorin's mind races over all possible actions and their consequences, yet he cannot find any that won't lead to the death of Ori.

None but one.

Gritting his teeth, Thorin plants his sword into the ground. After a brief hesitation, his Company follows suit. Except most _throw_ _down_ their weapons, _including Kili_ , and oh, if any of them manage to get out of here alive, now even more unlikely than before, Thorin is going to personally hammer the foolishness of that action into the head of every Dwarf that survives. If they'd planted their weapons as he, Fili, Dwalin and Balin had done, they could've mounted a swift counterattack the moment the Trolls let go of Ori. Now the others will be forced to waste far too precious time in order to retrieve their weapons.

At least Oin and Gloin have a valid reason for the loss of their weapons.

In the end, it doesn’t matter that most threw down their weapons, for the Trolls show a flash of chilling cunning and do not let go of Ori until all their weapons have been confiscated. Which they accomplish by ordering them to strip naked.

This right here is why Thorin _loathes_ intelligent Trolls with a vengeance. He might’ve encountered their kind but twice before, but every time makes him despise the foul things more deeply.

Every time he encounters them, his kin die.

After they’ve been forced to strip, the one who is clearly the leader of the Trolls orders the one not holding up Ori to put himself, Kili, Balin, Oin, Gloin and Bombur in conveniently Dwarf-sized burlap sacks these Mahal cursed things just happen to have laying around because of course they do, and to tie the sacks closed. The leader orders the same Troll to tie Fili, Dwalin, Nori, Dori, Bifur and Bofur to a spit and to place them over the fire. Then, and only then, does the leader put Ori in a sack as well and throws him down with Thorin and the others.

Had Thorin known this would be the outcome, he would've resumed attacking the foul things instead of complying with their demands.

Ori has not been stripped. Unfortunately, he possesses no sharp weapons, meaning he is for all intents and purposes just as unarmed as the rest of them. Just as trapped.

Keeping half an ear on the Trolls as they resume their previous bickering over the necessity of cooking, half on the various threats yelled at them by his Company, Thorin uses his teeth to yank at the thick rope holding the sack closed in an attempt to free himself. Kili, Oin, Gloin, Bombur and Ori are attempting to free themselves as well, though unlike Thorin, they are doing so by trying to punch and kick their way out of the cloth. How effective.

To be fair, it’s not as though Thorin himself is making any progress. Neither is Balin, who seems to be trying to wiggle a hand free in the narrow space left between cloth and neck. Balin fails, for naturally these Trolls know how to tie a decent knot, why is Thorin even remotely surprised by this?

He yanks harder at the rope, fighting not to give in to the panic attempting to take hold, forcing himself to remain clear headed. He cannot afford anything else if there is to be even the slightest chance of any of his Company getting out of here alive.

If there is to be even the slightest chance of saving Fili and Kili.

Thorin knows he’ll not succeed, knows he’ll be forced to watch as his kin are burned alive. But by Durin’s beard, he’ll die trying to get all of them out of here in once piece.

A sudden pressure on his shoulder makes him snap his gaze to the side, away from the still bickering Trolls.

The Hobbit, hidden in shadows and one of her hands grasping his shoulder, is gesturing at him to keep quiet with a fearful expression.

For a moment Thorin is overtaken by blind rage, for not only did the Hobbit cause this entire disaster in the first place, she abandoned them to their fate without even attempting to help them! Then she draws one of her blades and starts cutting through the rope holding him captive.

Thorin’s rage vanishes as quickly as it has appeared, realizing she’s not abandoned them after all and mind racing over the sudden possibilities that offers.

The Hobbit has but two blades, and the rest of their weapons are laying too close to the fire for her to be able to gather them without drawing the notice of the Trolls, no matter how silent she is. It’s also pointless for Thorin to make a move for them before the others are free, he stands no chance against the Trolls on his own. Stands no chance against them even with six others behind him.

Not when they have to worry about those tied to the spit as well.

But better to die with blade in hand than watch his kin burn alive.

Anything but see them burn.

If the Trolls continue to argue, he and the Hobbit might have enough time to free the others. Given the need to do so without drawing the notice of the foul things, Thorin can only afford to work one arm free from the sack, and he’ll need to use both his own body and those of the rest of his Company to keep the limb out of sight of the Trolls. He’ll also need one of the Hobbit’s blades to free the others.

Kili will be freed first.

The Hobbit has almost finished cutting through the rope when one of the Trolls turns to look at them, and Thorin is grateful she needs no warning to pull back and disappear into shadows completely.

"–starving, and we ain't got all night, so hurry up!" the foul thing snaps as it looks at them with greedy eyes. Thorin gives a fierce glare back and resists the urge to glance in the direction the Hobbit has disappeared.

"Hurry up, hurry up, no appreciation whatsoever. I work my arse off to make every meal a work of art, I do, and this is the thanks I get?" the leader laments. As soon as the first Troll turns to face the leader again, the Hobbit reappears and resumes cutting the rope.

"All good and well, but dawn's coming and I don't fancy being turned to stone." The Troll's words make the Hobbit freeze for the briefest of moments, but she resumes her work before he needs to order her to continue. Thorin tenses with anticipation as she almost...

"We've more than enough time, so stop your yammering and let me work."

The rope is cut.

"Give me your blade," he orders softly, ensuring his words don't carry to the Trolls over the sound of the various threats his Company are still yelling at them. Threats the Trolls are utterly ignoring.

The Hobbit’s gaze darts towards the others, before she nods her agreement and works the sack loose enough for her to slip the pathetic weapon into it.

He doesn’t need the blade to fight. Yet.

Thorin tilts his head so his hair conceals the cut rope, before he meets the Hobbit’s gaze full on and gives a pointed glances at Balin. Mercifully, the Hobbit needs no further instructions. She draws her second blade and moves towards Balin on silent feet.

Balin, brows rising with surprise as he notices the Hobbit darting forward, sensibly heaves himself upright so she can better conceal herself behind him. Which she does just in time to be hidden from view as the greedy Troll turns to face them again.

"Well maybe if you'd let us eat one, we wouldn't complain so much," it snaps, making Thorin ruthlessly suppress a stab of blind panic. He tightens his grasp on the pathetic weapon he’ll have to make do with and considers his next move. It would be the height of foolishness to give up the element of surprise if they eat but one of them, yet Thorin knows he’ll do so anyway.

He will always act foolishly if it offers even the slightest chance of saving his kin.

"Yeah, we're hungry!" the third Troll exclaims.

"Urgh, _fine_. But no more than one each."

The leader’s words make him lose the battle against his panic and those around him struggle even harder to free themselves, disguising Thorin’s own efforts to get out of this Mahal cursed sack, yet their movements are hindering him as well, and even with the rope cut he needs more time to fully untangle himself, too much time, a Troll has grabbed Bombur and is holding upside down and Thorin won’t be able to get free before–

"Wait, wait, wait, wait!" Perhaps it’s because the Hobbit bursts into the light seemingly out of nowhere. Perhaps it’s because her appearance surprises the rest of his Company into halting their frantic yelling, causing sudden silence to descent.

Whatever the reason, all three Trolls, including the one about to bite Bombur's head off, look down at the Hobbit.

"What's that?"

"Is it another Dwarf?"

"Can we eat it, too?"

Thorin quickly twists his body to the side to disguise the arm and blade he’s worked free from the sack, in the same movement checking on Balin. The Hobbit has not succeeded in freeing him, but she has left behind her other blade, hidden from the Troll’s view by Balin’s own body. Thorin returns his gaze towards the Trolls, confident that Ballin will soon manage to free himself. If the Hobbit can buy them enough time, that is.

"You most certainly cannot eat me, that would be terribly rude. And obviously I’m not a Dwarf, I am a Hobbit," the Hobbit declares, visibly frightened out of her mind, her eyes too large, skin is too pale, and hands utterly incapable of remaining still.

"What's a Hobbit?" the Troll holding up Bombur asks, while the greedy one scoffs.

"Rude to eat you? What a load of rubbish," it declares. Thorin gives Kili a soft kick to draw his attention, and when his sister-son turns to look at him, Thorin lifts the blade so Kili can glimpse the tip, before hiding it from view once more. Kili’s brows shoot up with realization.

The Hobbit lets out a ludicrously exaggerated huff. "Rubbish?”

Kili throws himself backwards and lands half on Thorin, positioned so he can cut the rope holding his sister-son captive without alerting the Trolls. Kili’s movement causes all three Trolls to glance towards them, but their attention is drawn back to the Hobbit as she continues to chatter. Thorin starts freeing Kili.

“Why, where are your manners. This is no way to treat a guest–"

"Just throw it with the others, we'll roast it too," the leader growls while returning its attention to those tied to the spit. The rest of his Company bursts into frantic yelling as the greedy Troll gains a wide leer and starts reaching for the Hobbit, and Thorin curses the foul things in the most vicious of ways because he’ll not be able to get free in time to save her–

"Wait, wait, wait!" the Hobbit rushes out, and Thorin cannot believe that for some reason it actually causes the Troll to hesitate but he thanks Durin that it does. He resumes freeing Kili. "I came here for a reason, a very important one!"

"What reason?" the greedy Troll demands with suspicion. The one still holding Bombur upside down watches the proceedings with interest, mercifully distracted from its desire to eat him whole. Bombur himself is turning an alarming shade of red from all the blood rushing to his head, but he has the wits to keep quiet and avoid drawing the attention of the foul thing holding him up. Admittedly, Bombur’s behavior could very well be caused by simple terror instead of any conscious decision on his part.

"I came here to tell you something very, very important," the Hobbit says with a quick glance at him and Kili, before she takes a few steps to the side. Which causes all three Trolls to turn their heads to follow her movements, meaning they are no longer able to see Thorin and the others even from their peripheral vision.

Ever since she reappeared, all actions taken by the Hobbit have been remarkably clever.

Thorin would've been impressed by that had she not been just as responsible as his sister-sons for causing this catastrophe in the first place.

"Incredibly important, in fact, the most important thing one can possibly be told, indeed, there is not a more important thing in the world–"

"What is it?" the greedy Troll interrupts, even more suspicious than before. Thorin needs but a few more moments to free Kili, and he prays the Hobbit will be able to buy enough time for him to succeed.

Balin rolls over the ground until he is behind Oin, and Thorin is grateful it causes none but the leader to give them a fleeting and disinterested glance. He can see no other movements from Balin, courtesy of the way Balin has positioned himself, but he knows his friend is now in the process of freeing Oin. Who sensibly changes his own position to better hide Balin behind him.

"I came here to tell you that... that these Dwarves are... infected?" the Hobbit lies the in the worst way possible. Mercifully, the Trolls seem more confused than mistrustful of the blatant falsehood.

"Did she say we’re infected? With what?" Ori actually feels the need to ask.

"They're infected? With what?" the Troll holding up Bombur wonders at the same time. 

The Hobbit's hands flutter through the air as she visibly struggles to come up with an answer. Thankfully, while these are without a doubt the most intelligent Trolls Thorin has ever encountered, that doesn't mean they can be called bright by any means. They allow the Hobbit enough time to think of something to say. And the Hobbit, Thorin knows, is exceptional at talking.

Unfortunately, she’s also awful at lying. Not the greatest of combinations when attempting to come up with a believable excuse.

"They... have worms. In their tubes."

Thorin halts his movements and is halfway through given her an incredulous look for the sheer awfulness of that lie before he catches himself and quickly resumes freeing Kili, desperate to get his sister-son free before the Trolls act on the Hobbit’s falsehood.

Except, astonishingly, _miraculously_ , all three Trolls gain an expression of horror, and the one holding up Bombur throws him back towards Thorin and the others with a cry of disgust. The impact of Bombur's landing causes him to grimace and makes Gloin and Kili let out pained groans. Thorin revises his previous decision to pass the blade on to Kili after freeing him, for Bombur’s position means that Thorin can free him without having to worry about the Trolls being able to see.

"They got parasites!" the Troll who threw Bombur exclaims.

As he  _finally_ cuts through the rope holding Kili captive, Thorin resists the urge to sigh with meaningless relief. Objectively speaking, freeing Kili does not improve this disaster in any way. No matter how much it feels as though it does.

The Hobbit nods with agreement, far too vigorous to be believable by any stretch of the means. "Yes, exactly, parasites, terrible business that, gives you indigestion and cramps and– and they taste horrible as well. They’re just nasty all around, really," she chatters on. Thorin, already in the process of freeing Bombur, thanks Mahal that the Trolls retain their expressions horror, still oblivious to the fact that the Hobbit is lying through her teeth.

"Parasites?" Gloin demands with what Thorin cannot believe is genuine offense. "We don't have–"

Thorin kicks the foolish Dwarf _hard_ and mercifully Gloin falls silent. The Hobbit is buying them sorely needed time, and if any of his kin ruins that, Thorin will–

Die before letting them burn alive.

"We've got the biggest parasites there are!" Kili exclaims in a burst of the selective cleverness his sister-sons are known for, and it's enough to make realization dawn at last on those who’d yet to catch on to what the Hobbit is doing. It also causes all to start shouting confirmation of this fact.

All aside from Bifur, Balin and Oin. Instead, Oin, his head tilted so that his beard covers the cut rope, heaves himself to the side so Balin can shuffle closer to Ori and start freeing him. Meanwhile, Bifur resumes cursing out the Trolls with such creativity that were this any other situation, Thorin would’ve been impressed.

Thorin takes the opportunity to order Bombur to keep still in their own Tongue, making the Dwarf momentarily halt his frantic yelling, before he quickly resumes it. This time he does it without wiggling like a worm.

"I don't believe it, it's trying to trick us," the greedy Troll growls, glaring down at the Hobbit.

"Of course I'm not trying to trick you," she denies with eyes darting up towards the lightening sky, but mercifully none of the Trolls seem to realize what this action means. "How would I even be trying to trick you? What could I possibly have to gain? No, I came to inform you of this fact simply because it is impolite to not let people know when they're about to ingest parasites, that is the only reason, there’s no other, none at all, I am most certainly not trying to–" The Hobbit cuts herself off by forcefully biting down her lip. Thorin supposes he should be grateful she caught herself before blurting out the truth, a very real danger for her.

"Not attempting to, what?" the one who is clearly the slowest of the Trolls asks with confusion.

“Yeah, not attempting to, what?” the greedy Troll repeats with suspicion.

"To, ah, to, to– have you considered making a gravy?" the Hobbit blurts with desperation, the randomness of it almost causing Thorin to halt his movements with surprise.

"A gravy?" the leader demands with sudden interest. The Hobbit lets out a great sigh of relief, which the Trolls mercifully have no reaction to. Probably because the Hobbit immediately launches into another string of chatter.

"Yes, gravy, you're making a roast after all, and while I applaud your use of sage, an excellent choice, truly," she aims at the leader, and it actually causes the Troll to smile with what seems to be true pleasure. "I fear no good roast is complete without the addition of gravy. Which isn't hard to make, though I'm certain that a distinguished cook such as yourself already knows how to make one," The leader starts preening. "–but I, ah, I... happen to have a secret recipe! Yes, carefully guarded by Hobbits throughout the generations, and normally I would never even dream of parting with it, but truly, how often does one encounter a situation such as this? By which I mean having Dwarves with parasites of course, because they have those, huge parasites, enormous ones, and–"

"It's lying, it is, they don't got parasites at all!" the greedy Troll snaps, either fed up with her chatter or having genuinely realized that the Hobbit is lying through her teeth. Thorin redoubles his efforts to get through the final stretch of rope holding Bombur captive, cursing the awful quality of the Hobbit's blades and praying that Balin has managed to free Ori as well–

"Quiet. Let the Hobbitsy speak," the leader orders. With a grumble, the greedy one subsides.

Thorin finishes freeing Bombur. He glances towards Balin, who gives a telling nod in return. Now only Gloin remains, and Kili is best positioned to handle that.

"Thank you, good sir, that is most kind of you."

Thorin elbows Kili to get his attention. When Kili meets his gaze, Thorin gives Gloin a meaningful look. Kili needs no further direction, he turns his body and begins working an arm free, carefully positioned to ensure the Trolls will not be able to spot what he is doing should they turn to look at them.

"Yes, yes, now what's the secret recipe?"

"And why’s it important the Dwarves have parasites?" the greedy one demands, before subsiding as the leader gives it a glare.

"That's a really good question," the slowest Troll adds with surprise.

Kili manages to free his arm just as the leader lets out a long suffering sigh. Thorin hands over the blade to Kili, before quickly hiding his own arm from view once more.

"Well? Why’s it important?" The leader's demand makes the Hobbit, who's attention had been caught by his own movement, look back up at the Trolls. As she struggles to come up with an answer, Kili starts cutting through the rope holding Gloin captive.

"Because... because..."

"Tell us or we eat you."

"Because it lets you eat Dwarves even when they have parasites!"

Thorin, as well as every Dwarf he can see, stares at the Hobbit with stunned disbelief.

Had Thorin thought her clever before? He takes it back, she’s a complete and utter fool.

The Hobbit herself gains an expression of horror the instant the words escape her, her hands coming up to cover her mouth. As though that will still make a difference.

Meanwhile, all three Trolls look down at her with interest. Thorin elbows Kili to get his sister-son to resume freeing Gloin, the matter even more pressing than before. Kili quickly continues his work.

"It does?" the slowest Troll asks.

"Eat them even with parasites, you say..." the greedy one muses, and Thorin curses the Hobbit in the most vicious of ways. She'd actually managed to get the foul things to reconsider eating them. And then she ruined it.

"Tell us how to make this gravy," the leader orders.

The Hobbit’s terrified gaze darts up to the sky, down to the Dwarves tied to the spit, before she meets Thorin’s own gaze for a moment that feels like it lasts far longer than it does.

She straightens her back and lifts her chin, before looking back up at the leader with determination. "Yes, it does. It's not difficult to make either, you simply have to–" As the Hobbit starts rattling off extremely detailed cooking instructions, without a single hesitation even, Thorin takes the opportunity to disperse soft orders to the others in their own Tongue. The most important of which is to _not_ attack until he gives the word.

The sky has lightened in a way that means dawn has broken, but of course the Trolls have chosen their campsite well. The Eastern side is bordered by high rocks, it will take at least two more hours before sunlight reaches the clearing.

Fili, Dwalin, Nori, Dori, Bifur and Bofur do not have that long left. Dwarves might be resistant to heat, but they’re not immune. Already the fire is starting to sear the edges of their hair. In another hour, they'll be dead. Cooked from the inside, just as the Trolls intend.

The wisest course of action is to have the Hobbit stall the Trolls as long as possible. The best case scenario, one Thorin highly doubts will happen, is that she succeeds in stalling the foul things for half an hour. Fili and the others can handle the fire that long before it starts hindering their ability to fight, and they can handle another fifteen minutes or so before it starts to truly endanger their health.

They need to let the sun rise as much as possible before he and the others attempt a counterattack. A counterattack that requires them to simultaneously free the ones tied to the spit, before making for higher, sunlit ground.

The odds of all of them escaping with their lives are less than zero. But with this plan, at least some of them stand a chance.

At least Fili and Kili might survive.

As the Hobbit continues rattling off an increasingly complex recipe, Kili succeeds in freeing Gloin. Thorin and the others even have enough time to best position themselves so as to not get in each other’s way when they mount their attack, and to loosen the sacks as much as is possible without actually getting out of them.

Of the three Trolls, only the leader remains focused on what the Hobbit is saying, the other two soon losing interest. The movements of Thorin and the others draw the attention of the foul things, but Dwalin and Fili, having long since realized what they are doing, resume yelling threats at the things in order to get their attention. The others tied to the spit follow suit. Aside from Bofur, who yells trivial information on toy making instead.

That last is what draws the attention of the two Trolls, so the others halt their own ineffective swearing and start yelling random facts about their own crafts as well. Aside from Bifur and Dwalin, who continue to insult and threaten the Trolls respectively. Given that the Trolls cannot understand what Bifur is saying, it doesn’t matter what he says. As for Dwalin, his friend is not so foolish as to give pointers on the art of fighting to the foul things.

Those tied to the spit manage to keep the focus of the two Trolls on them, allowing Thorin and the others to get into position. All the while the leader continues to listen to the Hobbit with attentive interest.

Thorin is deeply disturbed by how the leader seems to truly _memorize_ each of the progressively more complex instructions the Hobbit rattles off, cutting her off with impatience whenever she asks, frequently and with increasing desperation, whether she needs to repeat anything. Yes, it’s an intelligent Troll, but this is beyond absurd.

Then again, this entire disaster is so absurd already that Thorin truly shouldn’t be surprised by this. He can only pray that the Troll’s horrifying competence is limited to what seems to be its craft.

Given the streak of fortune they’ve been under since the moment the Hobbit first showed herself, Thorin is convinced that this will not turn out to be the case.

Eventually, their astonishing fortune runs out. Thorin expected no different, it’s a true wonder they've already acquired enough time to complete their preparations.

The Hobbit halts her stream of instructions and looks as though she has not a single idea of what to say next. Her sudden silence causes those tied to the spit to fall silent as well, the air becoming heavy with tension. A tension none of the Trolls seem to notice.

The leader nods with satisfaction. "Right, got all of that. Thanks, Hobbitsy." It turns to face the greedy one. "You can eat it now."

As the Hobbit pales and the greedy Troll leers, Thorin hesitates to give the order to attack for the briefest of moments, unable to help the vain hope that the Hobbit might come up with something else to stall the Trolls.

In that moment, a miracle happens.

"The dawn will take you all!" The words thunder through the camp, ominous in a way Thorin knows but one being to be capable of. As he turns his gaze towards the source in time with everyone else, he sees Tharkûn standing on one of the large boulders bordering the Eastern side, his staff held high.

"What's that?"

"No idea."

"Can we eat it, too?"

The Wizard lowers his staff and taps the boulder he is standing on with deceptive gentleness.

That rock, solid and massive, easily twice the height of the Trolls themselves, splits in two as though it is nothing more than an egg. Sunlight burst through the gap and floods the clearing, making the Trolls scream and writhe as they turn to stone with such swiftness it takes Thorin a moment to even realize what happened.

The Trolls have turned to stone. No one died.

All of them are _alive_.

The others burst into wild cheers as they realize the same, those on the ground jumping to their feet with exuberance, while the Hobbit falls to her knees and dissolves in hysterical giggling. Thorin himself is incapable of moving, overwhelmed by delirious relief.

No one died. They encountered three intelligent Trolls and _no one died_.

Somehow, impossibly, miraculously, all of them are still _alive_.

Thorin smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon: the dwarves were totally naked in the movie as well. Their pj's were just there to keep the movie PG-rated. Why? A few reasons, but the most important is this. If they were wearing their pj's, then why, at the very least, did the walking armory that is Fili not keep hold of at least ONE knife? 
> 
> Also, I'm wholly convinced that the dwarves undressed themselves (whether to complete nakedness or down to their pj's is your own call) because otherwise, it makes no sense that their clothes weren't completely destroyed. I don't think trolls would take care to unbuckle every clasp, they'd just rip everything off in one go.


	4. Chapter 4

After getting the others down from the fire and getting Oin’s approval that none have suffered serious injury, they gather their belongings and start redressing. Most are doing so with the kind of leisure Thorin would otherwise never allow, but an exception can be more than made this time.

All of them are _alive_.

After securing the last of his armour, Thorin around to see if any need aid.

They do not. But as his gaze falls on his sister-sons, Kili gains a brilliant smile and prepares to come over, no matter that he is but partly dressed.

Thorin has absolutely no desire to hear his sister-son speak of how “amazing” this catastrophe was. Mercifully, Fili elbows his brother, hard, and when Kili turns to face him with a frown, Fili conveys an entire speech on the foolishness of doing so through the use of his eyebrows.

It makes Kili’s joy falter, uncertainty, shame, and even fear rising instead. The same emotions Fili is now showing.

Thorin allows himself a sigh, before he walks towards them, making his sister-sons snap to attention. He looks over Fili’s burned skin and singed hair, Kili’s bruises from when one of the Trolls smacked him halfway across camp. Both of them are wearing no more than their tunics, and they look so much younger without their armour on.

Thorin knows he must order them to leave, their actions have left him no other choice. And he will.

But not right now. Instead, mindful of their injuries, he pulls them close and tells them the truth.

"I'm glad you're alright."

Both his sister-sons give him a startled look, while also showing a rising hope he’ll have to crush later on. The confusion is not unexpected, given that Thorin cannot be called an affectionate Dwarf by any means.

Thorin is still so overwhelmed by the knowledge that _everyone_ has survived, the sight makes him smile. He makes the decision to put some distance between himself and his sister-sons before either of them can attempt to apologize for causing this disaster. That would ruin his mood as few things can, given he’ll have to order them to return to Dis when they do.

His _entire_ Company is still alive. Thorin wishes to bask in that for a little longer before doing what needs to be done.

This does not mean he should simply stand by and do nothing. So he makes his way towards Tharkûn. Who is looking remarkably pleased with himself, tapping his staff against one of the stone Trolls with satisfaction.

"Where did you go to? If I may ask," Thorin calls without heat as he nears. Tharkûn turns to face him and becomes even more pleased with himself.

"To look ahead," the Wizard replies unhelpfully.

"What brought you back?" Thorin returns, once more without heat, can summon no annoyance at Tharkûn after he saved them all.

"Looking behind," the Wizard says as though it answers the greatest of mysteries. Thorin cannot help a burst of wry bemusement.

Wizards.

Thorin is about to ask whether Tharkûn had... not known about the Trolls in particular, for while there are many ways in which he doesn’t trust the Wizard in the slightest, Thorin does trust that Tharkûn wouldn’t put their lives at needless risk like that. But had the Wizard somehow known this place was dangerous, and was that why he’d been so insistent they move? Before, Thorin believed it to be because Tharkûn, for some utterly incomprehensible reason, wishes for them to head for Rivendell and seek the aid of Elves.

Thorin still believes the Wizard wishes for them to do so. Thorin still refuses to do so.

If the Wizard wishes to go frolic with Elves, he can go do so on his own.

But perhaps Tharkûn’s incomprehensible desire to seek the aid of Elves was not the only reason he was so insistent on their departure. If so, Thorin needs to know in order to prevent similar disasters from occurring.

Before he can ask, Tharkûn continues talking. "Nasty business," the Wizard muses as he looks towards the others, before he nods with satisfaction. "Still, they are all in one piece."

The words are spoken with a complete lack of surprise, and for the first time, Thorin wonders just how long Tharkûn was present at the camp. He’d appeared with remarkably fortunate timing, after all.

Thorin almost asks before he remembers that Tharkûn is a Wizard. Of course he was present long before he showed himself.

The knowledge makes him give Tharkûn a disapproving look. One he knows falls short of the intended effect, courtesy of the fact that he is still basking in the fact that his _entire_ Company has survived.

Thanks to Tharkûn. But...

"No thanks to your burglar," he returns, pointed, though still sounding less disapproving than intended. His own words make Thorin glance towards where the Hobbit is seated next to a long since dressed Balin. She'd been looking towards him as well, and the moment their eyes meet, she flushes and quickly averts her gaze towards Balin, awkward and embarrassed.

Balin gives him a far too cheerful smile, before he says something to the Hobbit that causes her to give Balin a shocked look and for her blush to brighten.

"She provided you the means to free yourself, and managed to buy enough time for you to free the others." Tharkûn's own pointed retort makes Thorin return his gaze towards him. "And enough time for myself to arrive, of course," the Wizard tacks on like the afterthought it is, not even attempting to sound sincere.

"Perhaps," Thorin allows, for it is true that, all in all, the Hobbit had been remarkably helpful in navigating this disaster.

And if she'd come to him the instant she and his sister-sons discovered the Trolls, none of it would've ever happened. No amount of subsequent help makes up for that initial stupidity, just as it doesn’t for Fili and Kili.

"She also endangered all our lives in the first place," Thorin continues, and even his high spirits do nothing to dampen the sharpness of his words.

Tharkûn huffs with annoyance and gives him a look, clear as diamond. One that makes true aggravation rise.

Because that look means the Wizard is still just as determined to have the Hobbit along. No matter that she’s proven to be moronic enough to pose a lethal danger to the rest of his Company.

His Company, which she not only endangered but is a part of herself. Which means it should be his decision to send her away or allow her to remain, _not_ the Wizard’s.

It is his decision. Tharkûn won't stop him from ordering the Hobbit to leave.

The Wizard will simply accompany her back to her home. While Thorin is reasonably certain that Tharkûn would reappear when reaching the Lonely Mountain, they’ll have no aid from him before then. Or, even more likely, Tharkûn would reappear before that. With the Hobbit in tow.

Yet while the Wizard’s desire to have the Hobbit along remains just as unyielding before, even when faced with stupidity such as this, he doesn’t try to defend her. Thorin narrows his eyes.

How long, exactly, had Tharkûn been present at the camp?

Before he can demand the answer, the Wizard hastily clears his throat and changes the subject. "They must've come down from the Ettenmoors," Tharkûn states the obvious while turning to face the Trolls. Thorin, after a brief moment of debate, allows the Wizard to dodge his question. For now.

He can demand answers after he’s no longer reveling in the knowledge that his _entire_ Company has survived.

"Since when do Mountain Trolls venture this far South?" he choses to return instead, for truly, since when do they do that? More importantly, are there others who’ve done the same? If so, where have they settled?

Can they encounter more of the foul things?

These questions are doing a fine job of lowering his spirits.

"Oh, not for an Age," Tharkûn replies, brow beginning to furrow with worry. Thorin's mood drops further. "Not since a darker power ruled these lands," the Wizard finishes in a soft voice, speaking more to himself than to Thorin. Tharkûn sounds almost fearful. Thorin grimaces, mood completely ruined. An impressive achievement on Tharkûn's part.

That sounds far too ominous all on its own, but especially so when spoken by a Wizard.

Thorin resolves to ignore each and every one of the terrifying implications that statement holds. He has enough to worry about without adding in... a Wizard’s trouble, is the least anxiety inducing way he can think to name it.

Tharkûn seems to feel the same, for after another moment of what has become an oppressive silence, the Wizard turns to face the Trolls again, dispelling the heavy atmosphere with an ease that can only be Magic. Thorin is grateful. While his spirits do not return in full, his mood still reaches heights he experiences but rarely.

"They could not have moved during daylight," Tharkûn states the obvious once more. Yet his words make sudden realization dawn, one Thorin had missed before now because of all the far more pressing concerns.

"Which means there's a cave nearby," he breathes out with rising excitement, for Trolls hoard anything shiny they can find. After all the trouble the foul things have given them, Thorin feels it only fair he and his Company get some form of compensation.

A little treasure will do quite nicely.

* * *

 

The sword in his hands is the most offensive thing he has ever laid eyes upon.

The alloy is exquisitely blended, breathtakingly tempered and seamlessly folded. The edge is honed to impossible sweetness, the hilt designed to provide the best conceivable grip no matter the shape of one’s hand, and all points of balance are pure perfection. It is, without a doubt, the most stunning, most magnificent blade he has ever seen, flawless in way conceivable.

And it was made by _Elves_.

Feeling betrayed by its sheer perfection, Thorin returns the offensively gorgeous blade to its equally offensive scabbard with all the care this breathtaking work of art demands, and curses the Wizard for being right.

He, literally, cannot wish for a finer blade.

"Let's get out of this foul place," he calls to Dwalin, his friend standing near the entrance and keeping half an eye on those inside, half on those outside.

His words make Dwalin let out a great sigh of relief, before he grimaces with disgust as he’s forced to take a too deep breath of the nauseating stench drowning every inch of this place. Dwalin leaves quickly, not bothering to speak in his haste to get to fresh air. Thorin continues to take shallow breaths as he gives the cave a final inspection.

Most of his Company have already left after grabbing as much gold as can be brought along without slowing them down. Only Gloin, Nori and Bofur are still inside, having stayed behind to, in Gloin’s words, _make a long term deposit_. The three are in the process of burying the last of the gold. Because, unbelievably so, this hoard holds enough gold for there to be some left after a dozen Dwarves descended upon it.

Gloin, Nori and Bofur are visibly suffering from the foul stench of this place, expressions twisted with revulsion as they continue to fill the hole they’ve dug. Meanwhile, Tharkûn continues to admire the magnificent blade Thorin gave him, the stunning work of art as offensively flawless as Thorin’s own insulting beauty. The sight is made even worse by how the Wizard seems to be wholly unbothered by the suffocating stench of this place.

Thorin gave the marvel of craftsmanship to Tharkûn, in part because the length means that the Wizard is the only one aside from Dwalin who can use the breathtaking blade to the full potential it deserves to be wielded with, and in part because Tharkûn saved all their lives and deserves a greater reward than the others. Especially after the Wizard failed to take even a single piece of gold, something Thorin still has trouble wrapping his mind around. Even the Hobbit has taken some. Incredibly little, yes, but she still took them.

Tharkûn has taken _none_.

Wizards. Thorin will never understand them.

The fact that he’s met no more than one, namely Tharkûn himself, doesn’t affect his opinion in the slightest.

"Bofur, Gloin, Nori, hurry up," Thorin orders while moving towards the entrance, more out of habit than necessity. The three are working as fast they can so as to leave this foul place behind.

The moment he's away far enough from the cave’s horrifying stench, Thorin breathes in deeply, savoring the sweetness of clean air. After looking around and locating Oin, Ori, Dori and the Hobbit, he makes his way to higher grounds so as to account for the others.

Aside from his sister-sons, who are in deep conversation with Balin, the others are cheerful and relaxed. All but Balin, Fili, Kili and the Hobbit are fiddling with her newfound gold, delighted with what turned out to be a truly exceptional find. Yes, Thorin had expected to find some treasure, but he’d not expected an amount like this by far, and he’d definitely not expected to find not one but _two_ priceless works of art.

Deciding to let them enjoy their treasure a little while longer, Thorin keeps half an ear on the chatter filling the air as he makes his towards Dwalin, standing nearby and keeping watch over his Company. Dwalin is idly caressing a pair of gold coins and appears to be wholly unbothered by his burns. An impressive achievement, given that his underclothes must be chafing with a vengeance.

There is a small stream running next to him, suitable for Thorin’s purpose.

Kneeling next to the water, he dips the marvel of craftsmanship in the stream. Trolls might hoard all things shiny, but they make no effort to keep things clean after acquiring them.

Even though he knew it would happen, Thorin still has to take a moment to simply stare as the water washes away the worst of the grime and dirt.

It manages to make the already breathtaking work of art _even more stunning_.

Thorin starts cleaning the exquisite hilt with the gentle care it deserves.

Dwalin is giving the work of art an extremely offended look. One that grows more pained the longer he examines the marvel of craftsmanship.

"That, is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen," Dwalin declares as though it is the greatest of atrocities. Thorin feels a wry expression grow. He saw more beautiful things before Erebor was lost, but not when it comes to weapons. When it comes to weapons, this is by far the most gorgeous thing he has ever seen as well.

And it was made by _Elves_.

"It's even worse when felt," he returns sincerely. Dwalin scoffs with disbelief.

"I doubt that, I really do."

Thorin understands why Dwalin believes so, given his exceptional eye for weapons. This does not mean he agrees with his friend's assessment.

After he finishes getting the now dazzling hilt as clean as it deserves to be, he holds it out towards Dwalin in part invitation, part challenge. Dwalin gives a suspicious look in return, but the temptation proves too great to resist, as Thorin knew it would be.

Dwalin puts his gold away and draws the magnificent blade. And immediately lets out an unintelligible noise that is equal parts awed admiration and pure agony. Thorin understands completely.

He starts cleaning the gorgeous scabbard, watching from the corner of his vision as Dwalin performs a few practice swings with a pained grimace. A grimace that grows deeper with every swing. Thorin himself feels a scowl grow a he hears the distinctive singing of the blade.

The edge is so fine it _cuts air_.

It takes an unbroken line of collaborating Master Smiths at least two lifetimes of constant crafting without room for even the slightest of errors to hone an edge so sweet. That’s without adding in all the other ways the work of art is so painfully flawless.

"Everything about this beauty is an insult to our kin," Dwalin declares after a few more swings.

"Agreed," Thorin concurs in an instant, meaning it from the bottom of his heart.

This marvel of perfection was made by _Elves_.

Unsurprisingly, Dwalin is incapable of not putting the breathtaking weapon through a routine. A routine that grows progressively more complex. Thorin, paying more conscious attention to his Company now that his friend is distracted, is planning to do the same after he finishes cleaning the gorgeous scabbard. He needs to familiarize himself with the blade’s absolute lack of resistance when swung.

He’s still cleaning the work of art when a flock of birds takes to the air, drawing both his and Dwalin’s attention. The bird’s flight causes the noise Thorin previously identified as distant animals roaming the forest to crystallize into the distinctive sound of snapping branches and earth being disturbed.

Something is coming. Fast.

Thorin spins towards the others while catching his Blade as Dwalin throws it back at him, and races to get himself between his Company and the nearing threat, Dwalin right at his heels with his warhammer at the ready.

"Something comes!" he warns while doing another headcount, ensuring that all are present. His warning causes all to draw their weapons and take up defensive positions.

Thorin absently notes that the Hobbit is wielding a different blade than before, as small as her other ones but of the same flawless make as his own and Tharkûn’s. Most of his focus is on locating the threat beyond a general direction, yet it’s moving too fast for him to succeed, far too fast–

Thorin swings his Blade on instinct as something burst through the foliage and blurs past him.

He misses. Partly because the Blade’s absolute lack of resistance throws off his aim a little, but the greatest cause is for his miss is that whatever large object he’s swung at has somehow managed to dodge his strike even at this close distance.

"Thieves! Fire! Murder!"

Thorin blinks with confusion, not so much at the yelling as at the sight that meets his eyes when the blur halts and reveals itself to be... a sled? Pulled by rabbits, of all things?

He signals the others to hold their position, for there is but one Man on that sled, unarmed save for a wooden staff.

No, not a Man. Comparable in shape, but the similarities end after first glance. This being, with tangled brown hair and ragged clothes, and wearing an expression that speaks of an absence of the mind, holds a sense of Power that defies all rational explanation. A Power more felt than seen.

A Power Thorin knows but one other to have.

"Radagast," Tharkûn exclaims, not merely relieved but with a kind of warmth Thorin has never witnessed from him before. The Wizard sheathes his magnificent sword. "Radagast, the Brown."

Thorin grimaces, even as he sheathes his own work of art, causing the others to, if not put away, than to at least lower their weapons.

Another Wizard.

Thorin watches Tharkûn walk towards the Brown Wizard with a growing sense of dread.

The fact of the matter is that they encountered three Mountain Trolls. Not one, not two. Three. And all were intelligent.

The odds of that happening this far South are almost as low as those of his entire Company surviving the encounter unscathed.

Which means Thorin has to wonder. What, exactly, is going to happen now that there are two Wizards present?

* * *

 

The answer, is for Warg scouts to attack and for their remaining ponies to bolt, meaning they lose most of their provisions and are forced to attempt to outrun the following Orc pack on foot. Naturally, they fail. In no small part because the Brown Wizard, who possess all the attributes needed to be an amazing one, is the most incompetent decoy Thorin has ever had the misfortune of being forced to work with.

But perhaps the Brown Wizard is not incompetent. After all, even though they end up in another situation where by all rights at least one of his Company should have died, Tharkûn manages to save them all once more.

By forcing them to take refuge with Elves.

 _Wizards_.


	5. Chapter 5

"No," Thorin warns Balin the moment he sees the particular way expression the Dwarf is wearing.

Balin, freshly bathed and wearing garments of Elven make that are disgustingly well fitted, sits down next to Thorin on the ridiculous bench prancing on its toes, lays his sword within easy reach, and lights his pipe.

"I didn't say anything," Balin returns after taking a few puffs, mild and peaceful. Thorin gives him an unimpressed look. He is in no the mood for this.

"Balin. They tried to hide the fact that there were _three_ intelligent Mountain Trolls nearby," Thorin reminds him of the obvious in the vain hope it might stop Balin from continuing. But of course Balin simply nods in agreement, calm and casual. As though they are talking about the weather instead of the stupidity that should’ve by all rights led to the death of his entire Company.

"Aye, they did."

Thorin feels an aggravated noise escape him at Balin's serene reply, unable to believe that the Dwarf is doing this.

"No," he repeats his warning more firmly, before getting off the ridiculous bench, intending to start mapping out their surroundings in more detail now that Balin is here to keep watch in his stead.

Balin won't make him change his mind about this.

"I remember a young Dwarf and his brother who once tried to hide the fact they'd managed to lose most of their provisions to a bear." The gently spoken words make Thorin halt. "If I recall correctly, this young Dwarf and his brother also tried to recover them all on his own."

Thorin closes his eyes at the memories that rise. "And I recall Frerin nearly dying my stupidity," he returns in a soft voice, before turning to give Balin a cold look for that low blow. One which does nothing but strengthen his resolve. "Thrain was right to send us away." Just as Thorin is right to send his sister-sons away.

Balin gives him a compassionate look. Compassionate, but with no remorse for having spoken those words.

"I won't deny that he was. But, Thorin, had he allowed you to stay... would you have made the same mistake?"

No. Not then, nor any time since. His brother's injury made sure of that.

Which had not mattered in the slightest back then, just as it doesn’t for his sister-sons now. This isn't about guilt or regret, this is not even about blood.

This is about trust.

"I cannot allow them to remain, Balin," he says, speaking nothing but the truth. Had any other done as they had, Thorin would've sent them away as well.

Except for when they have the protection of that aggravating, manipulative, insufferable _Wizard_.

Balin lets out a regretful sigh. Part of it is genuine, but most of it is pure theater. The Dwarf always did have an inordinate fondness for drama.

"If you're sure," Balin says, before letting a beat of silence pass. Thorin raises his eyes towards the ugly ceiling with exasperation as he waits for whatever point Balin feels still needs to be made. "A shame we'll lose two of our best warriors, though."

Thorin grimaces. It’s true, Fili and Kili are exceptional warriors. Their loss will weaken his Company a great deal.

Not as much as having them remain would. Not when Thorin can't trust them to act like the adults they are supposed to be.

"True," he agrees in a flat voice, letting Balin know he hasn’t succeeded at changing his mind.

This time Balin lets out a sigh of true resignation, shoulders slumping as he concedes to his decision. Thorin is grateful. He's had more than enough of this conversation.

"Just listen to their apology first, laddie. That's all I ask," Balin requests, soft and tired. Thorin lets out a sigh as well, still aggravated by the conversation, but he does nod his agreement. That he can do.

"Very well." With that, he turns around and continues on his way.

"Oh, and Thorin?"

Balin’s lightly spoken question makes him halt once more. He doesn’t turn around, has no desire to indulge his old friend any longer. Though Balin’s tone, at least, means that whatever comes next won’t be about his sister-sons.

"You might want to take a bath. Just a suggestion, of course."

Thorin feels his lips curve up with vicious satisfaction, and he looks over his shoulder to let Balin know just how pleased he is over his coming reply. "I find the added smell of Troll does wonders for the scenery around here."

Balin laughs, bright and true. It erases most of the unpleasantness of their previous conversation and lightens Thorin’s mood, if only a little. He leaves Balin behind and continues on his way.

His decision to send his sister-sons away remains unchanged. Yet even with this heavy fact bearing down on him, Thorin can at least take pleasure in every single disgusted expression he manages to inspire in the Elves he passes. It’s an irrelevant enjoyment, and Thorin is well aware of how petty he is being. However, seeing as he is forced to endure _the_ _gracious hospitality_ of these Elves against his will, he'll take whatever pleasure he can find, no matter how small.

The fact that his deliberate lack of manners are greatly annoying Tharkûn as well only offers further incentive to continue.

* * *

 

Eventually, Thorin is satisfied with his mental map of this hideous place and the potential escape routes. He sets out to rejoin his Company.

Their singing makes them easy to find, situated in one of the gardens. They've also confiscated some Elven instruments, and they're doing a fine job of using the things to create actual music instead of the grating nagging the Elves are so fond of. It's a shame they were forced to leave their own instruments behind when fleeing the Orcs.

Thorin’s arrival is noticed only by Balin, more because of the way Thorin has positioned himself than any lack of awareness on the part of the others. While they are mostly relaxed, all have at least one weapon within easy reach.

Thorin keeps careful track of the four Elves observing his Company from a distance with chilling curiosity. So do Dwalin and Gloin, and while Balin, Bifur and Oin are more subtle, it’s clear that they’re aware of the exact position of every Elf as well.

Fili, Kili and the Hobbit are missing. So is Tharkûn, but Thorin knows that the Wizard is off frolicking with their host.

For Tharkûn's sake, the Wizard better not be telling him about the key or map.

The Hobbit is most likely asleep. She was waxing poetry about sleeping in a real bed during dinner, after all. As for his sister-sons...

Thorin knows he’s put it off for too long already. Part of that is justified, given the constant string of misfortune they’ve been forced to endure today. But he still should have done this sooner.

The longer he puts it off, the more Fili and Kili will hope he’ll not send them away after all.

Thorin still takes another moment to watch the merry gathering, a little more at ease at the reminder that all yet live. Given the day they’ve had, not even the stress of being surrounded by Elves is enough to dampen that miracle.

Not completely dampen it, at least.

Bofur belts out an impressive note, to the loud approval of Dwalin and Gloin, who’ve positioned themselves between the Elves and the rest of his Company. Oin and Bombur are singing along enthusiastically, while Bifur is stomping the ground so wildly he’s spilling most of the wine in his cup. Ori, Nori and Dori are the ones who manage to tease actual music out of the Elven instruments, and Balin, guarding the rear, is cheerfully tapping his feet to the beat as he watches them with the same kind of satisfaction Thorin is feeling.

Giving them all a last look, Thorin makes his way to their rooms. He's certain Fili and Kili will be waiting for him there. And, he supposes, he’s put off taking a bath long enough.

On arrival, Thorin notes that the room assigned to the Hobbit is closed. This most likely means that she is indeed asleep.

If it were any other of his Company, Thorin would’ve entered their room to ensure that they are truly safe. However, the Hobbit has stayed in this place before, for an entire year even, and she survived the experience. She was also welcomed with seeming genuine warmth by their hosts, so Thorin supposes there is no true need to check up on her. Most likely. Probably. Maybe.

He’ll check on her after he has dealt with his sister-sons. For as expected, Fili and Kili are waiting for him.

While Thorin has agreed to listen to their apology first, that doesn't mean he has to make it easy for them.

He enters the room assigned to him in silence, leaving the door open for them to follow.

Thorin’s mood sours further when he sees the filled bathtub, still steaming softly even after all this time. The wonders of Elven Magic.

After Fili and Kili close the door behind them, Thorin turns to face them. He makes no attempt to hide his either anger or disappointment.

"We're sorry," Kili blurts, as always the first to break. Thorin gives him a cold glare. That childish apology is not _nearly_ enough for what they did.

Kili winces and Fili swallows harshly. Thorin bites back all the things he wishes to throw at their heads with the greatest of difficulties.

His sister-sons share a glance that holds a thousand words, before Fili squares his shoulders and takes a fortifying breath. As ever, he is the most responsible of the two. Not that this means much.

"Thorin, we're sorry," he says. Unlike Kili, it’s not blurted with desperation. It’s spoken with overwhelming guilt, shame, and regret. A simple but true apology.

Thorin gives him an unimpressed look. "What, exactly, are you sorry for?" he manages to demand in a calm and steady voice. One that makes his sister-sons turn even more ashamed. Good.

"For putting everyone's lives at risk," Fili continues softly. Kili nods in a way that means true agreement, not that he is merely following his brother's lead. At least they're aware what about their actions enrages him the most.

"Why did you?" he returns coldly, not bothering to soften the blow in the slightest. He knows why, but he needs to hear them say it. Needs to know they themselves understand.

They cannot prevent it from happening again if they do not.

"Because we were afraid to disappoint you,” Kili confesses, turning even more ashamed. Fili grimaces in a way that shows he fully grasps just how childish that reason is.

While Thorin already knew the answer, hearing it out loud still causes him to scowl. What a wonderful job they've done at avoiding that.

"We were stupid," Fili continues a touch too hurried, starting to lose the battle against his desperation. "We were so caught up in losing the ponies we didn't stop to think things through, only focused on getting them back."

"We should've come to you the moment we saw the Trolls, we know that, we really do, please don't–" Kili tries to beg, but is wisely cut off by Fili's elbow meeting his ribs.

"You didn't," Thorin condemns without mercy. His sister-sons flinch. Both know what this means.

"...No. We didn't," Fili agrees, shoulders slumping with defeat. He and Kili look so despondent and hurt that had this been about anything else, Thorin might've been lenient. Neither of them say anything more.

They do not attempt to change his mind.

Thorin should order them to leave, should tell them to pack up and return to Dis at first dawn. That is what he should do. And yet...

It shouldn’t be difficult to say the words, he’s done so without regret to others for far lesser offenses. The fact that these are his sister-sons should make it even easier, for reasons that have nothing to do with practicality.

Thorin _wants_ to send them away, wants them to be as safe as it is possible for them to be.

He wants them off this doomed quest so he’ll not be forced to watch them die.

And yet...

And yet looking at them both, so ashamed and hurt, yet so resigned as well, looking at Fili’s clenched fists hanging listlessly at his sides and the shine of Kili’s eyes as he fights to keep tears from breaking through, both not even attempting to protest, both fully realizing the gravity of what could have happened...

_Would you have made the same mistake?_

Thorin closes his eyes with a grimace, cursing himself for his own weakness. And cursing Balin and his trice damned silver tongue for good measure as well.

"...Never let it happen again," he bites out, unable to believe that he is actually allowing this.

"Wait, you're letting us stay?" Kili demands with pure disbelief. Thorin opens his eyes to the sight of his sister-sons staring at him in bewildered shock.

"Do not make me regret this," he warns.

Kili is the first to recover, letting out a cry of pure delight and surging forward so fast Thorin is almost caught off guard when his sister-son glomps him. Almost.

"We won't, I swear we won't, thank you, Uncle, thank you!"

Thorin lets out a long suffering sigh, already regretting his decision, even as he feels his treacherous mouth curve into a smile. Which, of course, is enough to make Fili surge forward and hug him as well. When they release him, he sees that both his sister-sons are radiating with joy.

"We won't let you down, Thorin, I swear," Fili promises earnestly as well, somehow managing to become even more radiant with pure happiness. Thorin tries to give them a warning glare to impress the dire consequences of what will happen should they break their promise, but he knows the effect is ruined by the treacherous smile he still fails to erase.

"See to it you do not," he does manage to warn with the gravity it deserves. Fili and Kili nod with vigorous agreement, their voices blurring together as they once more swear that they won’t let him down, won’t make him regret this, and more variations of the same.

Thorin waits until they stop to take a breath before speaking. "This is the only chance I will give you." he manages to tell them with an adequately hard look, and continues talking before they can burst into another wave of assurances. If they do, it will only tempt him to go back on his word. That would be not only dishonorable, it would be the height of cruelty. "And now I plan to take a bath," his tells them in a tone that means his sister-sons should leave. Now.

Fili and Kili stare at him with confusion, but given the delirious joy they’re still overwhelmed by, Thorin can for once excuse them for not grasping the obvious.

"In an Elven bathtub," he clarifies, and feels a scowl grow just from saying the words out loud.

Realization dawns on them both. Kili barely manages to bite back his laughter, while Fili attempts to smother a grin. Badly so.

Thorin is not amused.

"Right, we'll leave you to it," Fili says far too cheerfully, before bumping shoulders with his brother to get him to move. With an irritating snicker, Kili does.

Thorin is about to start disrobing when Fili unexpectedly halts and turns to face him again.

"What about Bluebell?" he asks with concern.

"It wasn't her fault, we made her do it," Kili adds with sudden worry as well, making Thorin’s mood drop sharply.

"Do not attempt to protect her," he warns. If they do, Thorin truly fears he’ll send them away after all.

"We're not, we’re telling the truth. She wanted to come tell you the moment she learned the ponies were missing, even before we found the Troll camp. We talked her out of it," Kili continues. Thorin gives him an annoyed look. His words are not helping the Hobbit's case in the slightest, for she apparently possessed enough sense to make the right decision. And then she was weak willed enough to go back on that decision.

Not to mention that it is wonderful to be reminded, in detail, of just how moronic and childish his sister-sons acted.

"We talked her into trying to steal back the ponies as well," Fili adds with a grimace, making Kili wince with a renewed surge of guilt. Thorin supposes he should be grateful they are willing to take full responsibility for their stupidity.

It doesn’t diminish the Hobbit's own responsibility for causing the disaster in the slightest.

"So she was foolish enough to be tricked by you two," he returns coldly, attempting to keep a handle on his returning anger.

"Don't sent her away, it really wasn't her fault," Kili pleads, and it’s enough to make Thorin's temper snap.

"Yes, it was. The three of you are equally to blame for what happened, and attempting to absolve the Hobbit of hers is not only irresponsible, it's disrespectful to the lives all three of you endangered. It's nothing short of a miracle that no one died, _never forget that_ ," he commands with a furious glare.

Kili flinches and Fili swallows harshly, their joy erased by renewed guilt and shame.

Thorin lets out a tired sigh, the sight causing most of his temper to die down.

"I'll not sent her away either," he tells them truthfully. Tharkûn has made sure of that.

Wizards.

Both his sister-sons sigh with relief and look at him with gratitude.

"Thank you," Fili says sincerely, Kili echoing the sentiment with a smile. "We'll leave you to enjoy–" Fili cuts himself off with a cough and a once more badly smothered grin of amusement.

"To endure your Elven bath," Kili corrects cheerfully. Thorin glares, and with a burst of the selective cleverness that drives him up the wall as often as it makes him proud, his sister-sons flee the room.

Thorin feels another involuntary smile grow as he hears them burst out laughing from behind the closed door, the sound bright, giddy, and full of overwhelming relief.

Most of him already regrets his decision to let them stay. He still wants them off this doomed quest, wants them to be as safe as it is possible for them to be.

They are so _young_. Mahal, Kili has yet to reach his eighth decade.

They’re older than he was when Erebor was lost. They’re older than he was at the Battle of Azanulbizar.

They’ve the same right he does to go on this quest. While it is a choice for them in a way it isn’t for Thorin, this doesn't change the fact that they have, of their own free will, chosen to go.

No matter how much he wishes they hadn’t.

With a sigh, he turns to face the bath. The sight is enough to sour his mood completely.

Thorin disrobes, undoes his braids, sets his beads and rings on the edge of the tub, before he gets into the bath and works to get clean as fast as possible.

The water is a disgustingly pleasant temperature, the soaps are infuriatingly effective, and after getting out the tub, the sheer softness of the towels makes him want to wreck the entire room. But without a doubt, the worst part is when he’s forced to don Elven garments and they fit _perfectly_.

How gracious these Elves are, how hospitable.

Thorin grabs his weapons and armour, and seats himself next to the tub. He carefully cleans his rings and beads, before redoing his braids. Then he takes vicious pleasure in dirtying every inch of those infuriating towels as he works to get the filth off his weapons and armour.

He cannot stop the memories from rising.

He’s passed by these lands many times over the course of his life. But of all those times, only one haunts him still.

After Erebor was lost, after his people were forced to flee with nothing but the clothes on their back, after they were turned away by _Thranduil_ , the Woodland King, after they were forced to journey to the Iron Hills without enough food, money, supplies, without enough _anything_ –

After their kin helped them as best they could and those capable started the long journey towards the Blue Mountains, they passed by Rivendell. They’d not crossed into the borders, but they had traveled close by, taking advantage of the relative safety found so near Elven lands. And Thror, his grandfather, his King, who in those few short decades seemed truly cured of his madness, refused to ask for aid. Not out of pride, for what is pride when faced with the suffering of their people? No, his grandfather refused to do so because he would not risk another incident such as had occurred when they’d begged the Woodland King for but a shred of mercy.

A mercy denied to them by force.

When passing by Rivendell, they’d not risked asking these Elves for aid.

The Elves did not offer any, either.

Now, here Thorin is, an honored _guest_ , given every courtesy that implies and more. Yet when they’d desperately needed that courtesy, when every drop of aid would have been welcomed with open arms, these Elves offered _none_.

And Tharkûn wishes him to ask for aid now?

As far as Thorin is concerned, the Wizard can go take a long breath from a short shaft and choke on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My personal headcanon is that after Erebor fell, Thror snapped out of his Gold Sickness and was a Good King. For a while, at least. Because, you know, Thorin's life wasn't tragic enough already. Also, I don't think the Dwarves of Erebor could've survived the loss of their home as a people/culture without strong leadership. They would've assimilated into the other Dwarven Kingdoms instead.


	6. Chapter 6

Thorin finishes getting his weapons and armour back in order, and curses the fact that it’s impossible to get the remainder of his clothes clean with the means available in the room. Which means he needs to wear the Elven garments until tomorrow.

He dons his mail, mostly covers it up with another disgustingly well fitted robe, and reluctantly decides to bring along no more than his Shield, Orcrist, and two hidden knives. Deliberate lack of manners or not, walking around fully armed without the excuse that he’d yet to bathe might provoke the Elves into hostility.

He goes to check up on the Hobbit. Her room is still closed, but as he continues his cursory inspection of the surroundings, his gaze halts on the balcony situated at the end of the hallway.

The Hobbit is reclining on a bench obscured beneath in a mountain of pillows, smoking her pipe for the first time since they left her home. Apparently she’s yet to go to sleep after all.

While finishing his inspection, he debates on what course of action to take next. Tharkûn has ensured he cannot sent her away without losing the Wizard's aid. Though given the Wizard's recent actions, Thorin is truly reconsidering whether it is still worth having him along.

It still is. Unfortunately.

However, while Thorin might not be able to send the Hobbit away, that doesn’t mean he cannot let her know _exactly_ how foolish and irresponsible she acted. He makes his way towards her.

The Hobbit, her ears mostly hidden by her unbound hair, dressed in flowing garments as disgustingly well fitted as his own, and with not a weapon in sight, turns to face him as he nears. She's engulfed by a truly ridiculous amount of pillows. Given those were not present when he first arrived, she must’ve placed them here herself. Not surprising. By now, Thorin is well aware that Hobbits have made “getting comfortable” into an art form.

The Hobbit smiles.

“Good evening, Master Oakenshield. I see you’ve finally decided to indulge in the luxury of bathing,” she quips as though she’s done nothing wrong. Thorin, after looking down the garden at where the rest of his Company are still making merry and verifying that all are present, including Fili and Kili, gives her an unimpressed glare.

It makes the Hobbit’s smile falter, confusion and uncertainty rising instead. Her hand starts to nervously tap her pipe.

“Have you nothing to say for yourself?” he demands. Unbelievably so, it makes her confusion grow. Fortunately, her eyes widen with realization before he needs to clarify himself.

She turns _embarrassed_. As though she’s done no worse than saddle her pony incorrectly.

“...I suppose you are talking about my shameful behavior last night? Or, well, this morning? ” she asks with extreme awkwardness. Before Thorin can confirm the obvious, the Hobbit continues speaking. Of course she does. “If not, I still dearly wish to apologize for my actions. Looking back, I truly don’t know what came over me– no, I do know why I did it, but in hindsight, the reasons are patently silly and wholly inadequate for excusing the danger I placed everyone in. Truly, I wanted to apologize far sooner than this, but circumstances kept intervening. There was the nakedness, the cave, the arrival of– all which you already know of course, seeing as you were there as well.”

She clears her throat, before giving her best attempt at a solemn and apologetic look. “What I mean to say, is that I am deeply sorry for my actions. I assure you, it will never happen again,” she finishes, more earnest than he’s ever known her to be.

It’s not _nearly_ enough for what she did.

“You believe it to be that easy?” he returns without any attempt to hide his contempt.

His accusation makes the Hobbit startle. “Well, yes? I can’t change the past, what's done is done. I can only promise that it will never happen again.”

Thorin scowls. The carefree response rankles him in the worst of ways. She’s right, after all. The past cannot be changed. No matter how much he wishes it could be.

This does not mean he will simply let this rest. Not when her foolishness should’ve by all rights gotten his entire Company killed.

“Why did you do it?” he demands, for without knowing the reason, he cannot prevent it from happening again.

The Hobbit’s embarrassment finally turns to shame, though it’s not nearly strong enough to account for her stupidity.

“...I wished to impress you.”

Thorin closes his eyes with a grimace. This is Fili and Kili all over again.

“I know it was the height of foolishness,” the Hobbit rushes out, making him open his eyes to meet her own anxious ones. “I should’ve come to you the instant we discovered the ponies missing. Only, I’ve been feeling quite superfluous on this journey, and I thought to prove my worth by discovering what had happened to them first, and then we found the Trolls, and after telling me to steal our ponies back, Fili and Kili disappeared, I was quite distracted by the Trolls you see, I’d never encountered any before, and I thought, well, what better way to prove my worth than to do just that? I must steal from a Dragon after all, so if I cannot even steal from Trolls, I would truly have no place in your Company.”

If one ignores the fact that getting killed before they reach their destination would defeat the entire purpose of this quest, her reasoning almost has a sense of logic. Almost.

“And I did manage to steal them back,” she declares with actual pride, though it’s quickly replaced by another surge of embarrassment. Embarrassment, but no further shame. “Only, I didn’t quite think through what would happen after I set them free. I also didn’t expect you to be hiding in the bushes. Not that I am blaming you!” she hastens to add as he gives her his most disapproving glare. Despite the assurance, it still sounds as though she is, in fact, blaming this catastrophe on him. “I am most grateful that you came for me, it’s just that I didn’t see you arrive and so I had no idea that you were hiding there, which means I couldn’t expect my actions to reveal you. Had I known–”  She cuts herself off, the hand not tapping her pipe worrying one of the pillows.

Thorin continues to glare. He’ll not make this easier for her in any way.

Not when she put his entire Company in mortal danger.

She averts her eyes with a grimace, before she shakes her head and halts her nervous fidgeting. When she meets his eyes again, she’s as somber as she is capable of, as well as more apologetic than he has ever seen her be. “No, there is no excuse for my actions. My behavior was childish and put all of our lives at risk. I swear to never act like that again.”

Thorin holds her gaze, assessing her sincerity. It makes her start rapping her pipe again, but she continues to meet his gaze, contrite and earnest.

He once more closes his eyes with a grimace. This truly is Fili and Kili all over again.

She acted like a child and put them all in danger. She’s also perfectly aware that she was at fault, truly understands the fate they so narrowly avoided.

She will not repeat her mistake. Ignoring the Wizard’s insistence that she stay, if he is willing to allow his sister-sons to remain for these reasons, he cannot in good conscience refuse to do the same for her.

Not when she stayed behind to help them. Unlike everyone else, she could’ve easily fled instead. Could’ve left them to their fate.

She didn’t. She put her own life at risk to save theirs. To buy them enough time to free themselves, to give them at least a chance of survival.

It does not diminish her mistake. What it does, is prove that she won’t abandon them. It proves she’ll see this quest through to the bitter end.

They all will.

He opens his eyes and infuses his warning with all the gravity it demands. “Never let it happen again.”

“You have my word,” she returns with an attempt at equal gravity, before giving a tentative smile.

“Break it, and you will no longer have a place in my Company,” he adds. While he didn’t need to spell out the consequences for his sister-sons, the Hobbit– Bluebell, he’ll not disrespect the sacrifice she’s willing to make for them by thinking of her by anything other than name. Bluebell doesn’t know him as his kin do.

Thorin means the warning from the bottom of his heart. Wizard or not, if she ever does something even remotely similar, he’ll send her away in an instant.

The decision to spell out the consequences was a wise one, for her eyes widen with shock. Thankfully, she makes no attempt to protest.

“...Fair enough,” she accedes instead.

Thorin allows himself a tired sigh, her acceptance of his judgment replacing most of his anger with sudden exhaustion. The exertion of the day is finally catching up to him.

He looks down at the rest of his Company, the sight of their merriment soothing him further. He’s grateful that the– that Bluebell makes no attempt to continue conversation. Instead, she settles herself more deeply into her mountain of pillows and takes an indulging drag of her pipe.

Thorin continues to watch over his Company, overwhelmed all over again that every single one of them still lives.

His family still lives.

That is a gift more precious than all the gold in the world.

* * *

 

One week. That's how long Thorin has decided they will remain here. One week, no more.

If he were alone, he would’ve left at first dawn. As it is, despite his _extreme_ reluctance to even entertain the idea of staying, he’s not so blinded by hatred that he fails to be rational.

The others are hurt. Not overly so, if pressed they could resume their journey right away. But it is better to allow them a few days of rest first, to let their burns and bruises heal before setting out again.

There is also the fact that they’ve lost their ponies and most of their supplies. While they can restock their supplies by buying goods from their _gracious hosts_ , the loss of their ponies is another matter entirely. The treasure found has left them with enough gold to potentially replace their mounts, yet Elves only possess the tallest of horses. While the Wizard can ride them, his Company attempting to do so would end in disaster.

Which means the time needed to reach Erebor has now tripled at the least. Wonderful.

The delay alone would’ve been enough to put him in a foul mood. Combined with being forced to endure the oh so _generous_ hospitality of these Elves, it’s enough to make him want to jump out of skin with pure aggravation.

Even so, their time here is not wasted. He practices with Orcrist until he feels satisfied that he’s able to wield breathtaking beauty to the full potential it demands to be wielded with, before he and Dwalin round up the others and hammer in the stupidity of _throwing down their weapons_.

They do so by showing them, in detail, the vital difference the additional time needed to retrieve their weapons can have. The bruises this demonstration inflicts on his Company are of no consequence. Even ignoring the fact they have more than enough time to recover from them, the minor injuries are more than worth it if it means none of them will _ever_ repeat such lethally dangerous stupidity.

Aside from that, he and Balin take stock of the supplies they have left, calculate what they’ll need to buy from the Elves and what the cost will be, before Balin and his silver tongue set about bargaining with their hosts. Thorin is glad that Balin needs no longer than a day to gather all the provisions needed. He feels the slightest bit more at ease with the knowledge that he and his Company are now truly free to leave this place the moment he gives the word.

Thorin spends the remainder of their time here patrolling between the members of his Company. He also avoids Tharkûn whenever the Wizard tries to convince him to show the map to their host.

Or rather, he tries to avoid Tharkûn. The Wizard has the aggravating habit of “casually” bumping into him whenever he least expects it. Worse, no matter how clearly Thorin spells it out for him, Tharkûn remains utterly deaf to any assertion that he will _not_ be telling their host about the map. Ever.

The best way to deal with the Wizard, Thorin has found, is to lead him to one of his kin. They prevent Tharkûn from coming after him when Thorin makes his escape.

Each day his desire to leave this place grows, no matter how much his Company is benefiting from the break. None are pleased to be within the presence of Elves, aside from Bluebell, but they are recovering from their injuries in a way they could not on the road. They’re also taking the opportunity to indulge themselves.

Ori spends most of his time in the Elven library, reading every book written in Common he can get his hands on. Dori looks more extravagant every day, enjoying the luxury of having both enough time and enough supplies to waste on such frivolous activities. Nori, when not guarding Ori because Dori or another is there to do it in his stead, takes great pleasure in attempting to sneak up on the Elves. He fails far more often than not, but the challenge that presents merely encourages him to try harder.

Bombur has found the kitchen, and his usual meekness has been obliterated by what he feels to be an utter insult to his craft. Which he tells the Elven cooks with more heat than Thorin has ever witnessed from him before. Thorin agrees with him, Elven cooking is atrocious. Greens alone can never be called a true meal.

Infuriatingly, the Elves seem to delight in arguing back, providing defense after defense for their chosen diet with an enjoyment that makes Thorin want to strike each and every one of them.

Bifur spends most of his time carving simple toys, enjoying the fact that he can do so for longer than stolen moments at camp. Bofur divides his time between doing the same, or attempting to teach the Elves actual music instead of the grating nagging they’re so fond of. While he has even less luck with his chosen challenge than Nori, he seems not to mind in the slightest. Neither does Thorin. Seeing the pinched expressions the Elves wear whenever Bofur bursts into song makes vicious pleasure rise every single time.

Oin can usually be found dozing in the gardens, enjoying the warmth of the sun. Gloin, when he isn’t sparring with Dwalin, is most often found next to him, caring for his weapons and armour. He detests being around Elves almost as much as Thorin does. Seeing as the Elves are “polite” enough to leave Oin napping in peace, being near him is the best way to avoid interacting with them.

Bluebell, in the complete opposite of Gloin, is constantly seeking out Elves. _Reconnecting with old friends_ , as she puts it. It is unbelievably aggravating to watch her delight as she converses with Elves, but seeing as she also keeps their attention on her instead of the rest of his Company, Thorin supposes there are some advantages to her incomprehensible fondness for their hosts.

Balin patrols between the members of his Company as Thorin himself does, still savoring the fact that all survived the two catastrophes that brought them here. Thorin himself is finding it harder and harder to appreciate that miracle with every day that passes.

Kili is either wandering the place with wide eyed wonder, or joining Bluebell in her conversations with their hosts. Mostly to ask after the buildings. While he doesn’t share Bluebell’s incomprehensible fondness for Elves, he's always been fascinated by their taste in aesthetics.

Thorin will never be able to understand how his sister-son can actually _appreciate_ the hideous architecture of this place. But then, Kili has always possessed an odd definition of beauty.

Fili mostly follows after his brother, watching over him. He also baits the Elves with verbal jabs that remain polite only in the most technical sense of the word. Thorin is proud of him. When Fili isn’t doing that, he usually joins Dwalin and any other that happens to be present in a spar. Most of the time Kili accompanies his brother, though not always.

Dwalin, as uncomfortable with the constant presence of Elves as Thorin is, works out his frustration by practicing his craft from dawn till dusk. Thorin joins him for a spar at least once day, as do some of the others, and Dwalin often gathers those who don’t come of their own accord. The fight with the Trolls has shown that all fight remarkably well together, but there is always room for improvement.

Bluebell, while she doesn’t possess the innate ability to coordinate with one another as his kin do, turns out to to be surprisingly adept at throwing things. She and Ori together make quite the formidable support, consistently hitting their targets with enough force to create openings for the others to exploit, while simultaneously avoiding hitting their allies, even within the midst of chaos that is a melee with multiple opponents.

The audience of Elves these spars always draw makes him itch to turn Orcrist on them, but as long as they keep their distance, none has an excuse to object to their presence. Unfortunately.

Yet even though his Company is benefiting greatly from this break, time still passes far too slowly. Each day seems longer than the last, each day seems like a greater waste of time.

Each evening the night terrors of Thranduil’s cruelty grow stronger.

Each day also sees an increase in Tharkûn’s attempts to make him tell their host about the map. On the sixth day, the Wizard is so insistent that Thorin is seriously considering throwing him off a balcony just to get a moment of peace.

Thorin has just finished escaping Tharkûn yet again, and is now gazing down at the pavilion where Oin, Gloin and Bifur are relaxing. Unsurprisingly, Oin is napping, Gloin is caring for his axes, and Bifur is carving some kind of toy. Gloin is also talking quite heatedly to Bifur, who occasionally gives a curt reply. While Thorin is too far away to make out their words, he can make an educated guess what Gloin is complaining about, based on the way he keeps shooting glares at the two Elves watching them with chilling interest. Fortunately, the Elves are also keeping a healthy distance.

When a voice sounds from his blind spot without warning, Thorin has almost drawn Orcrist before he realizes who it is that speaks.

“I see you have managed to escape Mithrandir’s attentions again.”

Thorin resists the urge to draw Orcrist after all when he sees the smile Lord Elrond is wearing. With the greatest of efforts, he forces himself to let go of the hilt instead. The gesture makes Lord Elrond’s gaze flicker towards his hand, and Thorin is unable to stop himself from clenching his fists. No matter that courtesy demands he show a minimum of politeness after being gifted Orcrist, the fact remains that the very presence of these Elves makes his skin crawl.

Lord Elrond inclines his head. “My apologies, it was not my intention to startle you.”

Naturally not. And that is why the Elf approached him from his blind spot without making a single sound.

Thorin gives the Elf a look as unimpressed as the blatant falsehood deserves, barely preventing it from turning into a glare. “Of course it wasn’t.”

The characteristic radiance of the Elf's skin turns brighter, in a way Thorin knows denotes amusement. The sight raises his hackles even further. “I fear I approached you without thought, forgetting that Dwarven hearing is not as keen as that of my kin.”

It’s almost impressive how the Elf manages to turn what should be an innocent explanation into an insult.

“Elves do have a habit of ignoring any people other than themselves,” Thorin returns with the barest veneer of politeness. Infuriatingly, it makes the Elf's amusement grow, skin turning even brighter.

“A flaw I always attempt to keep in mind and overcome. Though as this incident shows, I still fail at times, despite my best intentions,” Lord Elrond quips in a lighthearted voice, not insulted in the slightest. Thorin gives a scowl in return, before turning his gaze back towards his kin, keeping the Elf within his peripheral vision. He has no desire to converse with their host.

“Mithrandir is currently searching the Eastern Wing. I would advise you relocate before he makes his way here.”

The Elf apparently does wish to converse. Wonderful.

“I will keep your words in mind,” he returns flatly without taking his eyes off his kin, a clear message that he is not up for conversation.

Lord Elrond ignores the message completely. “I must confess, I am rather curious. Might I ask what it is he so desires you to talk to me about?”

“No,” Thorin denies while resisting the urge to glare at the Elf. He also curses the Wizard for his insistent meddling yet again. Truly, the only reason Thorin is still willing to have him along is because, despite the Wizard’s aggravating persistence to make him change his mind, Tharkûn hasn’t told their host about the map. Hasn’t broken his trust.

He still wishes to throw the Wizard off a balcony. Now more than ever, for while Tharkûn hasn’t broken his trust, his actions have made their host curious enough to come looking for answers himself.

“Nor may you ask about anything else. I hold no desire to converse,” he spells out, making it so that the Elf cannot ignore his request again. “At this time,” he adds for the sake of politeness. Better that than saying he has no desire to talk with any Elf. Ever.

Lord Elrond brightens with aggravating bemusement once more. “You truly remind me of your grandfather.”

Thorin glares at the Elf that dares to talk about his grandfather as though he knew him.

“It is meant as a compliment. Your grandfather was a great man,” the Elf continues with a mockery of sincerity, the false sentiment ruined by his continued radiance and the rueful smile he wears. “He also saw no need to be anything other than honest, to the point where his bluntness was easily interpreted as rudeness.”

“You know nothing of my grandfather,” Thorin returns harshly, clenching his fists even tighter to prevent himself from striking the Elf. He ignores the fact that the description rings true, ignores that in those short few decades where his grandfather had seemed cured of his madness, blunt truly was the first word to come to mind when asked to describe him.

Lord Elrond’s smiles fades and his radiance dims, but the false sorrow is even worse than his previous amusement. As though he not only knew, but cared about his grandfather.

“...I first met Thror when he was but two decades old, long before he became King under the Mountain,” the Elf reminisces as though the memory is a fond one, and the only reason Thorin doesn’t leave is because he fears that if he makes a single move right now, it will lead to him assaulting the Elf. “Even as a child, he was already an exceptional leader. He loved his people with a passion I have witnessed but rarely. A passion you share,” the Elf insults by delivering the words as though they are meant as a true compliment, before he averts his gaze towards the horizon, eyes distant and false sorrow growing stronger. “The loss of that love made the tragedy of his madness all the greater.”

“Yet when he overcame that madness, when we were in our time of greatest need, you offered not a shred of aid,” Thorin sneers, so furious he feels a tremor run through his hands from the near irresistible urge to draw Orcrist. All these words of praise, yet where was this Elf when they were left with _nothing_. Where was he when they passed by his lands with not enough essentials, where was he when they were starving, when they could do nothing but pray that those who fell ill would not succumb to their sickness.

Where was this Elf when his people were _dying_.

The Elf closes his eyes with a pained grimace, acting as though he feels actual regret. No, worse, actual _shame_.

“I did attempt to send aid,” the Elf dares to lie, and for a moment Thorin is made speechless by rage, unable to believe the audacity of this Elf.

The Elf continues speaking before Thorin can either recover his voice or give in to the urge to strike him. “I send my two fastest scouts to offer your people all the aid we could spare. I could not offer our home as a safe have, your number was far too great for us to be able to sustain you. But we could offer you the talents of our healers, and as much of our supplies as we could afford to miss.” The Elf lets out a mockery of a worn sigh. “Unfortunately, my scouts were chased off before they could deliver my words.”

Thorin cannot help but stare with utter incredulity as he realizes just what incident the Elf is referring to, the strength of his disbelief momentarily overcoming his rage.

“Your _scouts_ appeared without warning in the middle of our camp, fully armed and having bypassed our watch without notice. They appeared this way to people whose last interaction with your kind was being chased off Elven lands by force.” Thorin infuses his next words with all the derision they deserve. “What did you expect to happen.”

“As I realized myself when my people returned,” the Elf replies with a grimace, acting as though he is genuinely pained by his stupidity. “I foolishly decided that the wisest course of action would be to wait until you came to us for aid instead. I only realized you had no intention of doing so after you had already left our borders well behind.” The Elf lets out a tired sigh, radiance all but gone under the weight of seeming sorrow and regret. “In hindsight, I should have been more insistent.”

Thorin glares, rage not abated in any way. Yet now matter how much he wishes they didn’t... the Elf’s words ring true.

Before Erebor was lost, before he learned just how cruel Elves can be, what had annoyed him most about them hadn’t been their arrogance or capriciousness.

It had been their complete lack of any and all sense of time. An Elf would show up and leave again for years, decades even, and when they returned, they acted as though but a day had passed since their last appearance.

Failing to realize that they had no intention of asking for aid long after it would’ve been clear to any other people, sounds exactly like something an Elf would do.

“My failure to aid you and your people when you needed it the most is one of my greatest regrets,” Lord Elrond says with a sincerity Thorin now believes to be true.

He is not impressed by it in the slightest. “You made no great effort to rectify your mistake,” he derides, for aside from those _scouts_ , no other Elf had ever approached them.

Even long after they’d left these lands behind, they would’ve welcomed any aid with open arms.

“I send a delegation of healers and as much medicine as we could spare when I realized you would not ask for aid yourselves. When they arrived at the Blue Mountains, they were told in the strongest of terms that they were both unwelcome, and that the gift would be refused if they did not accept some form of payment in return.”

Thorin can only stare with utter incredulity once more. He knows the delegation Lord Elrond speaks of, remembers the sheer fury it had inspired that these Elves would offer medicine only after his people no longer needed it with the desperation of a thousand suns, the way it had been a slap to the face, an insult to all who’d died. Of course they’d refused the oh so kind _gift_. It had already rankled in the worst of ways that they couldn’t afford to pay the true worth of the medicine, yet the Elves were _considerate_ enough to accept the symbolic payment anyway.

Except Lord Elrond’s words shed a new light on that event. An unbelievably absurd one. “You only realized we had no intention of asking for aid _after_ we'd already reached the Blue Mountains?”

The Elf gains what better be a self-deprecating smile instead of a mocking one. “We are not the most skilled at keeping track of time.”

The gross understatement makes Thorin let out a sound of pure disgust. “Evidently not.” He had no idea it was this bad, though.

Even after all this time, Elves continue to find new and unpleasant ways to surprise him.

Because they could’ve had at least _some_ aid when they needed it the most. Could’ve prevented at least some deaths.

Instead, due to the Elven inability to tell the difference between a day and a year, that aid arrived long after it still could’ve made a difference.

“I cannot make up for our failure to aid you when you needed it the most. But know this, Thorin Oakenshield. You and your people will always be welcome here. You will always find aid here.”

Thorin lets out a harsh sigh, anger not in any way abated, no matter the revelations brought on by this conversation. Even so.

“...My thanks for the offer,” he forces himself to say. While it doesn’t make up for the mistakes of the past, doesn’t bring back those who died, the offer is still... exceptionally generous.

Had the offer not been made by an Elf, Thorin would've even called it kind.

Lord Elrond brightens slightly, though sorrow still lingers in his eyes. “No thanks are necessary. You and your people have suffered enough.”

Thorin bites back a vicious retort that the Elf knows nothing of their suffering. He’ll not disrespect the generosity of the offer like that. No matter how much he wishes to do so.

“I will leave you to your peace now,” the Elf ends the conversation at last, inclining his head in farewell. Thorin returns the gesture, before turning his gaze back to his kin as Lord Elrond takes his leave. He resists the urge to keep the Elf within sight, refusing to show that kind of weakness.

“...Mithrandir will be arriving soon.”

Thorin feels a pained grimace grow. Both because the Elf still hasn’t left yet, and because of the reminder of Tharkûn’s insufferable meddling.

“I would advise you to relocate soon if you wish to continue avoiding him.”

“Your advice is noted,” he returns in a flat voice without turning to look at the Elf, a clear message that this conversation is over. After a moment of silence, he glances in the direction Lord Elrond’s voice last came from.

The Elf has finally left.

Thorin lets out a harsh sigh, every part of him wound too tight.

They could’ve saved some of their people. All they had to do was ask these Elves for aid.

They hadn’t.

The deaths that could’ve been prevented rest as much with them as it does with these Elves. No matter how sensible his grandfather’s decision had seemed at the time.

Gritting his teeth, Thorin gives his kin a final look, before he leaves this place behind. If he is forced to endure Tharkûn’s insufferable pestering right now, he _will_ throw the Wizard off a balcony. It is better for all to avoid that.

If he could, he’d go to Dwalin and attempt to work off some of his turmoil by sparring. The more intense, the better. Unfortunately, if he does that, the audience it will draw will alert Tharkûn to his location.

Thorin stalks through the ugly hallways instead, the lack of release only making his turmoil grow.

They could’ve saved some of their people. Could’ve prevented their deaths.

They failed their people. He failed their people.

He always does.

When he passes one of the dining halls, he halts as he sees Bluebell, unarmed as always, and seated comfortably at a table that is the perfect height for her, one of the many oh so kindly provided by their hosts. For once, there are no Elves with her. She is also devouring a ridiculous amount of food. Or course she is. She’s finally able to have “proper” meals, after all.

Thorin will never be able to understand how someone so small can eat so much.

After a moment of debate, he decides to join her. Anything to get his mind off the deaths that could’ve been prevented.

“Good afternoon, Master Oakenshield,” she greets with a smile. “Would you care to join me for afternoon tea?”

“No,” he answers while taking position by a pillar decorated in the most hideous of ways, keeping all exits in sight and ensuring none can approach without notice. He’ll not be caught off guard again.

Bluebell chuckles and takes a bite of mushrooms, her expression turning to one of rapture as she does. Like Bombur, Hobbits enjoy all food with exceptional intensity, but they appreciate mushrooms above all else.

The only time he can remember savoring food the same way was when there was not enough to go around. When hunger was a constant companion.

“Are you alright?” The question draws him out of the memories.

“Why do you ask?” he counters, unwilling to admit to her that he is not. He cannot afford to show weakness to those that rely on him.

Bluebell’s expression remains worried, no matter the lightness of her next words. “If you don’t mind me saying so, you seem to be in even worse spirits than usual.”

“My spirits will continue to worsen the longer we remain here,” he points out, speaking nothing but the truth. He cannot wait to leave this place behind.

Tomorrow. They leave tomorrow.

Tomorrow feels as though it is still an eternity away.

Bluebell smiles with amusement, though the worry doesn’t leave her eyes. “Are you sure you do not wish to join me? I find that a good meal always does wonders for one’s mood.”

Thorin lets out a derisive scoff. “I would hardly call what you are eating a good meal.” A meal, yes, if only for the amount of food involved. But good? That would require at least one form of meat.

“You are correct, this is not a good meal. It’s a _great_ one,” she returns with a grin, before taking a bite of some kind of salad with relish. Content in a way Thorin still has trouble wrapping his mind around, no matter how often he sees it.

Thorin scowls. “For it to be a great one, the Elves would need to include meat. But of course, that is far too vulgar for their delicate sensibilities.” Elves kill Orcs and any other intruder on their lands without batting an eye, but slaughtering animals for substance? Oh no, that would be far too cruel. “Their insistence on serving nothing but greens is ridiculous. They act as though eating meat is _immoral_ , of all things. As though they’ve never bloodied their hands themselves. Their pretentiousness will never cease to amaze me.”

Thorin is aware that he is ranting. He also doesn’t care in the slightest. He needs to vent, and complaining about Elves is the only option he currently has.

It helps him keep his mind off his failure. Helps him not to think of the deaths that could’ve been prevented if only they’d asked.

Bluebell sips her tea with a conflicted expression, tapping the cup as she debates with herself over something.

“What is it,” he asks. Every distraction is welcome right now.

She hesitates, tapping her cup more rapidly as her conflict grows. Thorin narrows his eyes at her in a silent demand that she spit it out.

“...They are playing a trick on you.” For a moment, the words confuse him. Then he is overtaken by a surge of blind _fury_.

“A trick?” He manages to demand in an even voice, cursing himself for ever even entertaining the possibility that these Elves might be trusted after all.

“Elves do eat meat, normally. They are merely pretending that they don’t.” Her words make him grit his teeth because _of course_ they are, why didn’t he realize this before? This kind of ridiculing is exactly what Elves do.

“It’s only a harmless jest, there’s no need to take it personally,” Bluebell chides as though he is overreacting.

“You think it harmless that they ridicule us?” he snaps, unable to believe her defense of them. Then he realizes she’s known from the very start that the Elves were mocking them and had _joined in on the mockery herself_.

The betrayal that inspires is even greater than his rage.

“They aren't ridiculing you, they’re just having a bit of fun. They do this to everyone, you know, including each other.”

How nice to have yet another confirmation that Elves are equal opportunity deceivers.

“As they did to you?” he accuses, still struggling with her betrayal and how to react to it.

“Oh yes, they most certainly did,” she replies with a fond smile, not even attempting to deny her betrayal. She actually seems unaware of her treachery. “Not in the same way mind you, but they played trick after trick on me. Why, they started the very first day I arrived. I told Lord Elrond that I’d heard all Elves possess the most beautiful of voices, you see, and throughout the year, Elf after Elf performed different songs for me, each more beautiful than the last." The only reason Thorin doesn’t interrupt her chatter is because he suspects her ignorance of her betrayal to be genuine. “Then came the day of my departure, and I was told that Sarnel, who I’d never heard sing before, would gift me a final performance.”

She lets a beat of silence pass, wearing a mischievous grin. She truly has no idea that she has betrayed them. Which means it wasn’t willful. That... mostly excuses it.

“It was _awful_. Even a yowling cat sounds positively harmonic compared to Sarnel’s singing.” It sounds harmonic compared to every Elven song. Her adoration of their music is almost as incomprehensible as her fondness for them. “And that is when I realized that while not all Elves can sing, all of them are mischievous,” she delivers as though she expects him to find this amusing.

Thorin can think of many, many ways to describe Elves.

“Mischievous is not how I would choose to describe them." It is, in fact, not even present in the long list of terms he has for them.

Bluebell chuckles and gives him a rueful look. “No, I don’t imagine it would be. I still stand by my opinion, though, Elves are the most mischievous people I know. They put even Took tweens to shame,” she declares with a warmth Thorin understands even less now that he knows she’s been a victim of their capriciousness as well. “I think it’s because they have too much time on their hands.”

Thorin lets out a startled snort, his lips curving up without his consent. The vaunted immortality of Elves, the thing they pride themselves on above all else.

And she calls it _having too much time on their hands_.

Bluebell stares at him with flushed cheeks and a dazed expression, her usual reaction whenever he smiles. Thorin ignores it, the unexpected burst of humor having cleared his thoughts.

He shouldn’t take his anger out on her, it’s not her he’s mad at. He’s not even mad at the Elves for their childish behavior.

He’s mad and grieved by the deaths that could’ve been prevented. He’s furious at the senselessness of the loss, livid at how easily it could’ve been avoided.

Most of all, he's mad at himself for failing his people so badly.

All because they hadn’t asked.

He lets out a harsh sigh. No matter how much he doesn’t wish to do this, he... will tell Lord Elrond about the map. He has to, they’re no closer to figuring out its secrets, and Tharkûn is right in saying their best chance of unraveling those secrets lay with their host. Their only other option is to either return to the Blue Mountains and ask the scholars there, or detour to the Iron Mountains to do the same. Both options make the delay caused by the loss of their ponies seem insignificant.

Lord Elrond offered to aid his people.

It will soon be clear whether that offer holds any weight or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, and the conversation between Thorin and Elrond in particular, is the behind-the-scenes headcanon I came up with because canon says that Elrond is a Good Guy, and what we see from him supports that (to me, at least). Except canon also says that no one aided the Dwarves after they lost Erebor, and no matter how you turn it, that's a dick move on the part of everyone involved. 
> 
> So this is my headcanon to reconcile those two facts. Lord Elrond did send aid. He just went about it very badly.


	7. Chapter 7

Thorin spends the remainder of the day attempting and failing to work off some of his turmoil by sparring with Dwalin. When Tharkûn inevitably shows up to pester him, Thorin informs him of his decision to tell Lord Elrond about the map.

The Wizard is so inordinately pleased with himself that Thorin almost changes his mind again. Fortunately, having gotten what he wanted, Tharkûn leaves him in peace at last.

Dwalin, though he doesn’t say so out loud, strongly disagrees with the decision to show the map to an Elf. Thorin truly wishes that he didn’t need to do this either, but the circumstances have left them with little choice.

When evening falls, he gathers Balin and informs him of his decision. Balin does protest out loud, heatedly so, but he relents when he sees that Thorin won’t be swayed. They go to meet with their host.

To no surprise, the Wizard is already present. What is surprising, is that Bluebell is present as well. Though given her confused countenance, Thorin feels confident to conclude that she was dragged along by Tharkûn. Of course she was.

Wizards.

Given that Thorin is in no mood to argue with Tharkûn yet again, he allows her presence to go by without remark. Thankfully, she remains silent, understanding that this conversation doesn't involve her. As she points out herself before attempting to take her leave, but of course the Wizard prevents that, citing an inane excuse about the benefits of having different perspectives.

Thorin pays no heed to the byplay, all his attention on Lord Elrond as he hands over the map. Now he’ll find out whether the Elf’s offer holds any weight or not.

It does. Thorin is having genuine trouble believing it.

Lord Elrond figures out with irritating little effort that the map holds Moon Runes, something Thorin curses himself for not having thought of on his own. Balin grimaces in a way that means he is mentally slapping himself as well for missing what is so obvious in hindsight.

Thorin ignores Tharkûn’s ridiculous attempt at feigning ignorance of their presence, far more worried about the fact that they have no idea what light the Runes were written by. Fortunately, Lord Elrond determines the answer to that question with the same ease he figured out the presence of the Runes themselves.

As it turns out, these Runes were written by the same light that shines upon them this very evening. What a coincidence.

Perhaps Thorin will throw the Wizard off a balcony after all.

All thoughts of Tharkûn’s manipulations fly out of his mind when the Runes are read.

They have until Durin’s Day to reach Erebor. They have a mere three months.

Theoretically, they can make it. If they encounter no unexpected delays.

The odds of that happening are less that zero. Traveling, by its very nature, is filled with dangers impossible to foresee.

Balin is just as aware of this fact as he is, but he's also convinced that they can make it. Thorin is not. Which doesn’t matter in the slightest, what matters is doing all in his power to get them there in time.

They’ll have to adjust their route, take shortcuts that will put them at far more risk than he is comfortable with, but there is no other choice.

Not if they are to reach Erebor in time.

Thorin is pulled out of his planning when Lord Elrond stops pretending that he hadn’t seen through Tharkûn’s excuse of having no interest in the map beyond the academic from the beginning. “So this is your purpose. To enter the Mountain.”

“What of it,” Thorin bites back, all the good will he’d been feeling towards the Elf destroyed by the oh so pointed disapproval he now shows. As though he has any right to comment on their quest.

“There are some who would not deem it wise,” Lord Elrond criticizes with the usual arrogance of his kind. He at least has enough honor to hand the map back, and Thorin wastes no time in putting it away in safekeeping.

“What do you mean?” Tharkûn demands with a furrowed brow. Apparently the Wizard has picked up something in the Elf’s words beyond mere arrogance.

Lord Elrond disapproval grows as he aims it at Tharkûn, condescending in a way only Elves can be. “You are not the only guardian to stand watch over Middle-Earth.”

And what a fine job this Elf has done.

Thorin resists the urge to say so out loud. Lord Elrond is taking his leave, and Thorin has no desire to have him remain any longer than he has to. Let the Elf pretend at being responsible for the safety of all someplace else. He holds no influence over him or his people, and Thorin is in no mood to listen to his delusions of the contrary.

Tharkûn, still looking vaguely troubled, follows after him. Thorin watches their retreating backs in silence, unwilling to plan out loud until the Elf and his “superior hearing” are out of range.

“We need to adjust our route,” he tells Balin in a low voice the moment he feels it safe enough.

“Taking the High Pass wins us at least a week, two if we’re fortunate,” Balin replies in a prompt and equally low voice, already working on the problem as well. Thorin scowls, detesting the additional danger taking that route will put his Company in. Unfortunately, the time limit they are now under leaves them no choice.

Yet the High Pass alone won’t win them enough time. They need a far greater buffer than a mere week, and while there are a few other shortcuts he can think of, their only true chance of reaching Erebor in time...

“We’ll need to cross the Mirkwood,” he forces himself to say, feeling physical pained as he does.

It makes Balin look at him with stunned shock. “Thorin, _no_.”

“What other choice is there?” he returns, the truth of it leaving a foul taste behind.

“Anything is better than going into that vile place,” Balin snaps back, anger replacing his shock. Thorin cannot blame him for that. Just the idea of being so near Thranduil’s lands is enough to make his own fury start to rise. He so desperately wishes they could still afford to go around the Woods as he’d originally planned, but that is simply no longer an option.

“Taking the Old Forest Road will keep us well away from their borders, and even at worst, we gain at least a month by doing so,” he points out the rational reasons for why they need to do this. Both to Balin and to himself.

Balin starts pacing with a scowl, shoulders tight with age old tension. He recognizes the wisdom of taking this route, but the scars of Thranduil's cruelty run deep. “I don’t like this, Thorin, I like it not one bit.”

But he agrees with the need to do so anyway.

“Excuse me.” Bluebell’s tentative interjection makes them both turn their attention towards her. She turns even more awkward under their gazes, her hands hidden behind her back in an effort to keep them still. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but can I leave now?”

“Tell the others there’s been a change of plans,” he orders, mind turning towards the immediate that needs to be done. They can work out the details of their new route while on the road, a general plan is all that is needed for now. “We leave at dawn.” He’d planned to leave at midday, but they can no longer afford even the most minor of delays. “We need to go over our supplies again,” he aims at Balin. Given the change in route and the time that should win them, they might be able to afford to leave some things behind. The lesser the weight to haul along, the faster they’ll move.

On the other hand, they won’t be able to spend as much time hunting and foraging as they could before. It might be wiser to increase their rations instead.

“Right, tell the others, I can do that,” Bluebell says with a jerky nod, before quickly taking her leave. Thorin resumes planning with Balin, not a moment left to waste.

It’s almost impressive how their newfound time limit has managed to turn the odds of success even more impossible.

* * *

 

Later that night, after everyone has finished their preparations and are ready to leave the moment dawn breaks, his Company enjoys a final supper. One which includes meat. With the knowledge that the Elves are “playing a trick” on them, it hadn’t taken Nori, Fili and Kili long to find the hidden food. Even with Elven Magic, there are only so many places where meat can be stored without spoiling.

Thorin, having long since finished his own meal, guards one of the exits while watching over his Company. Even with the added stress of their newfound time limit, seeing his kin happy soothes him in ways nothing else can. He also finds vicious satisfaction in every piece of furniture dismantled to feed their cooking fire. They’ll pay for the damages of course, but seeing the meticulous destruction of Elven craftsmanship is almost as soothing as watching his kin be happy.

As the flimsy table Bombur is sitting on creaks in warning, stressed to but not exceeding the breaking point, courtesy of Bombur's meticulous calculations of how much weight it can hold, Bofur gives his brother a considering look, before he glances down at the sausage held in his hand. “Bombur!”

Thorin watches with bemusement as Bofur throws the sausage at his brother, who catches it on reflex.

Bombur realizes what the additional weight to his calculations will mean just as the table gives out beneath him, sending him crashing down the floor and making his Company roar with laughter. Even Bluebell joins in, despite her disapproval over what she deems to be _unspeakably rude behavior_. She’d only been somewhat mollified by the assurance that they would compensate their hosts for the damages, just enough to make her stop fussing. Out loud, at least, she still gives disapproving looks whenever a piece of furniture is destroyed.

The faint sound of raised voices draws his attention away from his Company. When Thorin realizes who he is hearing, he signals Fili to cover his watch. As Fili takes over his position, Thorin walks up the stairs, moving towards an argument that becomes more clear the further up he goes.

“–think you can trust that I know what I’m doing,” he hears Tharkûn say with great annoyance.

The hideous architecture of this place is not entirely without advantages. For one, it carries sound much further than it otherwise would. For another, it’s easy to take up an inconspicuous position that still allows him to observe Lord Elrond and Tharkûn as they make their way across one of the pathways down below.

“Do you?” Lord Elrond snaps back, previous condescension replaced by ire. Clearly, this argument has been going on for some time. Most likely it started the moment the Elf and the Wizard took their leave earlier this evening. “That Dragon has slept for sixty years.” Thorin narrows his eyes at the Elf that is apparently still deluding himself into believing he has an actual say in their quest. “What will happen if your plan should fail? If you wake the beast?”

Thorin bites back a derisive scoff. Lord Elrond is acting as though Smaug will sleep forever if only they leave the beast alone. And here Elves accuse other people of being shortsighted. Their hypocrisy will never cease to amaze him.

It is the height of absurdity that their shortsightedness doesn’t prevent them from having no sense of time whatsoever.

“But if we succeed, if the Dwarves take back the Mountain, our defenses in the East will be strengthened,” Tharkûn insists with a stubbornness that means Lord Elrond has just as little chance at changing the Wizard’s mind as Thorin had at convincing him to halt his pestering. It is deeply satisfying to see it being aimed at an Elf this time.

“It is a dangerous move, Mithrandir,” Lord Elrond condemns. Thorin rolls his eyes at the Elf’s continuing delusion of having a say in their quest.

“It's also dangerous to do nothing or cut the throne of Erebor, it is Thorin’s birthright,” Tharkûn counters with equal heat, a welcome affirmation of where the Wizard’s loyalties lay, despite his many manipulations. “What is it you fear?” he continues more calmly, seemingly honest in his desire to know the answer.

“Have you forgotten?” Lord Elrond demands in a low voice that should not carry as far as it does even with the acoustics of this place, but Thorin is far more focused on the way the Elf whirls on the Wizard with a kind of anger that makes him itch to draw Orcrist. “A strain of madness runs deep in that family.” Thorin stills, utterly caught off guard by that blow. “His grandfather lost his mind, his father succumbed to the same sickness. Can you swear that Thorin Oakenshield will not also fall?”

Thorin is only absently aware that the Elf resumes gliding away without waiting for an answer and that Tharkûn hurriedly follows after him, the words seeming to echo inside his mind and the few gold pieces he wears gaining an impossible weight.

Will he not also fall? Fall like his grandfather did, fall as his father began to do, the sickness creeping in so slowly, visible only in the most subtle of signs but still undeniably present.

Will he abandon their people as they did? Abandon his family?

His shock is replaced by a surge of pure rage, a vicious hatred for the Elf who dares to speak those words as though they are a certainty, as though his fall is inevitable.

As though it being truth is not what he fears above all else.

Thorin glares at the Elf's back. In a way, this is a stroke of fortune. At least now he knows just how little the Elf’s offer means. Oh, Lord Elrond will _graciously_ allow his people to enter his home as guests, but true unconditional aid? No, that he will never offer. Worse, if they act in ways he deems to be _unwise_ , the Elf will attempt to interfere.

Thorin will not allow that to happen. They leave now.

Just as he is about to inform the others of this, Tharkûn turns his head and meets his gaze. Even with the distance between them, even though the Wizard should not be able to see him, Thorin realizes that Tharkûn somehow does. Realizes that the Wizard has known from the beginning that he was here.

Tharkûn winks. He turns to face the Elf again and resumes arguing before Thorin can finish comprehending what that gesture means. When he does realize what it means, he feels rueful exasperation grow.

Tharkûn not only approves of his decision to depart early, he is actively encouraging it. More than that, he’ll distract Lord Elrond so as to prevent the Elf from interfering.

Thorin truly should have guessed the Wizard would do this. Tharkûn has gotten what he wanted from the Elves, namely, the use of their Altar to read the Runes. Of course he sees no further need to remain here.

Wizards.

Thorin makes his way back to his Company while considering how best to leave this place without sounding an alarm. The Wizard will catch up with them later. The Elf’s promise of aid might be mostly empty, but Tharkûn’s is not.

It's nice to see that his trust in the Wizard is not misplaced.

* * *

 

They don’t leave right away of course, that would draw unwanted attention without fail. Instead, Thorin passes along that they leave within two hours, after they pretend to retire for the night. By then, most Elves will have retired as well, meaning they stand the most chance at departing unseen.

Surprisingly, Bluebell approaches him with suggestions on how best to leave, offering the advantage of her intimate knowledge of this place, gained over her year of living here. He would've thought her against departing without being able to say farewell to her _old friends_ , but when he tells her so, she only gives a mischievous smile and explains that _it is only fair to return a trick of our own_.

It eases the last doubts he had over her dedication to them. While she’s already proven to be willing to lay down her life for them when facing enemies, choosing a side when caught between conflicting loyalties is another matter entirely. Yet this shows that, despite her history with these Elves, she has chosen them. It proves she has the same loyalty, honor, and willing heart all those in his Company possess. He can ask for no more.

Or rather, he can ask for no more aside from having the basic sense to _avoid intelligent Mountain Trolls whenever possible_. But that is in the past now, and he trusts that both his sister-sons and Bluebell have learned their lesson.

Should they break that trust, he’ll banish them from his Company in an instant.

When the time of their departure arrives, Bluebell succeeds in leading them past the guard posts without drawing attention. As they leave the Valley behind, Balin, knowing these parts best, takes over the lead.

The more distance they put between themselves and the Elves, the more a weight falls off Thorin's shoulders, the constant tension of the past week starting to fade. He is by far the only one affected, his Company is remarkably merry, no matter the strict pace required of them.

Thorin is more than a little bemused when they attempt to settle the wager of whether they would leave the Elves sooner than intended or not. It turns into quite the heated discussion.

Technically, they did leave on the day he first said they would. They merely left extremely early.

At least, that is Bluebell’s argument for why she won the wager. The pot, in fact, seeing as she was the only one to bet they would not leave early.

Balin and Bifur argue back that the lack of a night’s sleep means that they left on the sixth day instead, which means they won the wager. All the others bet they would leave sooner than that, but the fact they stand nothing to gain doesn’t prevent them from becoming involved in the argument.

Eventually, it is agreed that their departure happened on the sixth day, not the seventh. Balin and Bifur are quite pleased with their profit. Bluebell seems more amused by their reactions than anything else, not minding the loss of potential gold with an ease that will never cease being odd to witness.

They make camp early, the need for rest too great to ignore. Not to mention that, given the pace now required of them, it is essential they recover their lost sleep.

For the first time since they crossed into Elven lands, Thorin sleeps without night terrors.

His Company’s high spirits don’t last, of course. They’re forced to move faster than ever, and it makes all feel the loss of their ponies even more keenly than they otherwise would. Every day ends with most collapsing in exhaustion, too tired to do anything but sleep. Even Bofur can find no energy for more than a single song a day, and they’re of a far quieter kind than the ones he sang before.

Thorin is proud of his Company. Despite the pace demanded, none truly complain and all keep up.

When they reach the Misty Mountains, his own mood drops sharply. The High Pass is not only more perilous because of the narrow ledges that don’t deserve the name of roads, it takes them through Goblin territory. Even with an increased watch and the warning light of his and Bluebell's blades, the nights are more dangerous than ever.

Thorin is expecting many things to go wrong. He is expecting Goblin ambushes, broken paths, rockslides, treacherous weather, and so much more.

He is not expecting the Stone Giants.


	8. Chapter 8

Thunder rumbles as deluge continues to pour down without mercy, the rock beneath their feet slick and treacherous. The weather had turned disastrous with a speed found only in the Mountains, darkening the sky as though it is the middle of the night instead of noon. To make matters worse, it had done so right as they were in the middle of crossing the most dangerous part of the Pass, nothing separating them from the abyss below but narrow and unstable ledges.

Thorin knows they must find shelter soon. Already there have been far too many close calls where one of his Company lost their footing and nearly fell to their death.

Unfortunately, shelter is nowhere to be found. They have no choice but to continue on.

Thorin snaps his head towards Bluebell as he hears her cry of fright, for one heart stopping moment he convinced that this is it, this is when he will lose– Dwalin yanks Bluebell back, preventing her from falling to his death. Thorin feels a harsh sigh escape him, meaningless relief threatening to overwhelm all else, something he cannot afford. He must keep a clear head, must keep moving forward and _find them shelter_.

If they do not take refuge soon, at least one of his Company will be lost to the abyss below.

“Look out!” The warning makes him snap his head towards Dwalin again, and he sees his friend push Ori, Bluebell and himself against the Mountain as much as is possible while gazing up at the sky with an expression as close to fear as Dwalin is capable of, making Thorin look up at whatever disaster about to strike.

He looks up just in time to see the shadow of an enormous boulder crash into the Mountain high above them, the impact causing the earth to shudder and shattering the boulder into lethal debris. Thorin pushes Gloin and himself flat against the Mountain, watches his Company do the same as rubble passes so close he can feel the rush of wind.

Where in Durin’s name did that come from?

“This is no thunderstorm!” Balin exclaims as he stares with shock at something across the chasm, but the heavy rain makes it so that Thorin cannot make out whatever it is Balin has spotted. “It’s a thunder battle!”

The words cause a surge of pure disbelief as they turn what Thorin had previously assumed was a rockslide happening on the opposite side of the chasm into something else entirely. Something that should not exist, something that is supposed to be mere legend.

For a moment, Thorin can do nothing but stare, unable to believe what his eyes are telling him is there.

“Bless me, the legend are true,” he vaguely hears Bofur’s awed voice say, barely audible above the noise made by a children’s story come to life. “Giants! Stone Giants!”

Those words are a lot more audible.

Thorin snaps out of his shock as the Giant throws tears off an enormous piece of the Mountain as though it is nothing more than a pebble, pushes Gloin and himself back against the Mountain as the Giant throws it in their direction. But as he follows along the boulder’s path, he realizes the rock isn’t aimed at them.

It’s aimed at another Stone Giant. One that crashes against the Mountain when hit by the boulder, causing the earth to tremble violently, and Thorin cannot believe that some of his Company are actually gaping at the spectacle instead of _taking cover!_

“Take cover, you fools!” he yells, ensuring his words are carried to the last Dwarf, and mercifully all heed his command. All except Bofur, but Kili pulls the foolish Dwarf back before he succeeds in getting himself killed.

Thorin almost loses his balance as the earth heaves once more, the shaking accompanied by sounds he now understands to be an illusion of thunder. “Move!” he orders the moment the earth settles enough to do so, hurrying along the ledge as fast he can, yet their pace is still too slow, far too slow. The slickness of the stone prevents them from running and the ground they cover is meaningless compared the distance the Giants can cross with a single step.

Stone Giants. They are caught in the midst of a battle between _Stone Giants_. For once, Thorin truly believes it impossible for things to get worse.

Naturally, he is proven wrong. In the form of the earth heaving with even greater violence than before, almost sending all of them plummeting to their deaths, except the earth doesn’t settle, continues to quake and shudder, and Thorin realizes with horror that the ledge they’re on is not part of the Mountain at all.

It’s part of another Stone Giant. A Giant that is starting to move. While they are on it.

He doesn’t dare to tempt fate again by assuming that things cannot get worse than this.

“Kili, grab my hand!” Fili’s voice make him snap his head towards his sister-sons, panic threatening to overwhelm all else as he watches the path they are on split in two, separating Fili, Dwalin, Bluebell, Ori Bombur and Bofur from them while he can do nothing but watch, powerless to save them. He can only hold on for dear life as the Giant starts to move in earnest.

Thorin is pushed flat against the rock by the motion, the sheer velocity causing nausea to rise. His surroundings are nothing but a blur, broken only by a fleeting moment that seems to last forever as the others pass in front of them and he sees Fili cling to the rock, prays that his sister-son won’t fall–

Thorin almost loses his own grip as the Giant crashes against the Mountain, but the impact also brings them besides another ledge, offering a way to get off this cursed creature, and Thorin wastes no time in ordering his Company to “Move!”

He’s already running to get off the Giant and onto solid ground, scrambling to cover enough distance so the others will have the room needed to follow. The speed with which he moves causes him to lose his footing and he barely manages to break his fall onto the ledge instead of plummeting to his death below, gets back to his feet while looking behind him, almost overwhelmed by a burst of meaningless relief as he sees that Kili and everyone else has made it.

Fili and the others are still on the Giant.

Thorin hears the cries of those still on the Giant, yet is unable to spot them no matter how hard he tries, stone the only thing that fills his vision.

When he does see them, part of him almost wishes he hadn’t.

The Giant is falling, in such a way the part his kin are on will smash against the Mountain, will crush them all, crush _Fili_ , and Thorin is frozen with horror, can only watch as–

Stone smashes against the Mountain and Thorin is no longer frozen, is racing forward, vaguely aware of the cries behind him and the own denial torn from his throat because he cannot lose Fili, his sister-son can't be dead but he is, Fili is _gone_ , the boy he watched over since birth is– _alive_.

Relief drowns out all else. While part of him is aware that Dwalin and the others have survived as well, he can only see Fili, alive and seemingly unhurt, gazing up at the sky with a dazed expression and alive, Fili is _alive_.

The joyous cries from the others as they round the corner and see that all still live clears his mind. There is no time to celebrate, the danger they are in has not lessened in the slightest, so Thorin starts moving forward to get the others back to their feet and continue searching for shelter–

“Help! Please, please, please, _help!_ ”

He spins on his heel, relief obliterated by horror as he sees small fingers clinging to the edge, and Thorin is already diving forward as the others cry out with alarm, prays he’ll be in time as Bluebell loses her grip with a scream of terror– he almost tumbles off the ledge himself as he catches her by the arm, turning her scream into one of pain from the force he's exerting but that is of no importance, all that matters is having a secure enough grip so he can get her back on the ledge.

He feels someone grip the back of his coat, offering enough stability that he can heave Bluebell up. Gloin grabs the back of her coat the moment it is within reach and pulls her fully onto ledge, allowing Thorin to get back to his own feet, and he wastes no time in doing a conscious headcount of his Company in a way he so foolishly had not done before.

All of them are present, thank Mahal.

Dwalin, also doing a conscious headcount now that he has recovered from his brush with death, lets out a harsh sigh of relief as he sees that everyone has made it as well. “For a moment, I thought we’d lost our burglar.”

For a moment, Thorin thought they’d lost far more than one. Thought he’d lost Fili.

Part of him still believes he has.

“We need to find shelter,” he says loud enough that all can hear him, pulling the others out of their meaningless celebrations of survival. The danger is far from over.

To emphasize this fact, another boulder shatters against the Mountain above them, causing all to scramble for cover as best they can to avoid the lethal debris.

“Move!” he orders the moment he can, taking the lead once more.

He grasps Fili by the shoulder as he passes him, needs the confirmation of touch, the assurance that his sister-son still lives.

He’ll not live much longer if they do not find shelter soon.

Thorin thanks Durin as he encounters a crevice that _finally_ leads to a cavern spacious enough to hold them, and he stands by the entrance to ensure every last one of his Company makes it inside. When he enters after Bombur, Dwalin informs him that the cave is unoccupied, the sliver of fortune the most welcome news he has heard all day.

Thorin orders those hurt to see Oin and for the rest to get some sleep. It might be noon, but it is best to recover from this disaster as fast they can. He wishes to leave this cursed valley behind today if possible, but the odds of that happening are extremely low. There is not that much time left until night falls, and the weather showed no sign of clearing anytime soon. That is without even mentioning the continued battle of the Stone Giants.

Stone Giants. Real, true, living _Stone Giants_. Thorin still has trouble wrapping his mind around it.

Deciding to take the first watch, he moves towards the entrance. But as he passes by his sister-sons, he gives into the urge to pull them close, part of him still unable to believe that Fili yet lives. Both his sister-sons grip him back with equal force, as shaken by the near miss as he is.

Thorin holds them close a moment longer, before he releases them and takes up position by the entrance.

It is with relief he watches Oin proclaim none are seriously injured. Even Bluebell suffered no worse than dark bruises and a tender shoulder from when he caught her. While he wishes there had been a better way to save her, he does not regret causing those injuries.

Not when the alternative was to watch her fall to her death.

His Company doesn't go to sleep right away. They huddle together, low conversation filling the air as they assure themselves that all still live.

Balin and Dwalin listen to Bluebell’s nervous chatter while sitting near enough to one another that part of them is always touching. Bifur is cursing out his cousins with a viciousness belied by the overwhelming relief he shows. Bofur and Bombur let him vent in silence, all three leaning close together. Dori smothers Ori in hugs and frets over the state of his braids, against Ori's halfhearted protestations, while Nori hovers over them both. Even Oin and Gloin, the only ones not separated by the Giant, are assuring each other of their continued survival with soft grumbles and gentle touches.

Kili attempts and fails to jest about Fili’s brush with death, holding his brother close as though he fears Fili will otherwise disappear. Thorin resists the urge to abandon his position to do the same. Fili is alive and well, and someone needs to keep watch. Even ignoring his desire to let his kin recover from this ordeal, Thorin is the best choice for that. He already knows he’ll not be able to sleep, too wound up from all the near misses his Company had.

He almost lost Fili.

It does not take overlong for his Company to settle down and go to sleep, breaths deepening as they fall into slumber. All except Bluebell, who tosses and turns, fitful in a way he is unused to seeing. Normally she can get comfortable no matter the place or time of day.

But then, normally she doesn’t almost fall to her death after narrowly avoiding being crushed by a Stone Giant.

Thorin himself struggles to keep watch, his gaze constantly attempting to settle on his sister-sons to the exclusion of all else.

He should've send them back to Dis. Should've taken the opportunity to get them off this doomed quest, should've given in to the urge to keep them safe. Before this, he'd believed he would be capable of continuing this quest after watching his sister-sons die, if only because his own eventual demise is certain.

As is so often the case, he has overestimated himself. This ordeal has made clear he’ll not be able to continue.

No, that is untrue. As long as one of them lives, Thorin knows he’ll be able to force himself to keep going. Yet if he were to lose them both...

He grits his teeth as he fights not to give in to the urge to abandon his post and pull his sister-sons close as he did when they were mere babes. Instead he looks at them, laying close together and holding hands even as they sleep.

For now, both of them are alive and well. It's pointless to think of the time when they will not be. That will do nothing but distract him, to the point where it will put the rest of his Company in danger.

Thorin refuses to allow that to happen. He will do all he can to keep his entire Company alive.

To keep his family alive.

He turns his gaze towards Bluebell as she gets up and silently makes her way towards him.

“Master Oakenshield, would you mind terribly if I joined you?” she asks in a quiet voice so as to not wake the others. “I fear I’m too wound up by what happened to be able to sleep.”

“If you wish,” he replies in an equally soft voice, the distraction from his thoughts not unwelcome. Though given her atrociousness at keeping watch, he’ll need to take care not to become too distracted.

Bluebell smiles and settles herself next to him, burrowing herself even deeper into the blankets she has wrapped around herself. He truly hopes those are enough to prevent her from falling ill, for Hobbits do not share the same resistance to extreme temperatures as he and his kin do.

Given their current streak of misfortune, she most likely will fall ill. Wonderful.

“That was quite the experience, wouldn’t you say?”

Thorin supposes that is one way to describe it. He has another.

“It was an utter catastrophe.”

His words make Bluebell chuckle softly. As though there is actual humor to be found in this disaster. “That is a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?” she returns, sincere in a way he cannot wrap his head around. “No one died and no one was hurt. Well, not beyond some bruises, at least.”

When put like that, this catastrophe suddenly becomes much more bearable.

“Thank you for saving me, Master Oakenshield,” she continues with a smile. “For a moment, I was convinced that I was about to meet my end.”

“No thanks are necessary,” he replies, speaking nothing but the truth. She is part of his Company, it is his duty to look after her as best he can.

Bluebell’s smile grows. “Nevertheless, you have my gratitude.”

This time, Thorin accepts her thanks with a nod.  Bluebell, of course, continues to chatter without pause.

“I still can't believe that we saw real Stone Giants.”

Neither can Thorin. He also cannot believe she spoke those words with actual _excitement_.

“I thought they were just stories, I had no idea that they were real. Did you?”

“No, I didn’t,” he replies, tired exasperation rising at the sheer absurdity of encountering _Stone Giants_. Clearly, the Wizard’s penchant for landing in implausible disasters has rubbed off on them. And here Thorin thought his absence would offer a temporary respite.

“You haven’t encountered them before?” Bluebell asks, curious.

“To the best of my knowledge, I have not.” Though he could have encountered them unknowingly, given that the Giants were indistinguishable from the Mountains until they began to move.

The thought that he might have very well walked across other Giants without realizing it is enough to make him grimace with discomfort.

“Weren’t they amazing?” Bluebell asks with incomprehensible giddiness.

“I would not call nearly being crushed to our deaths amazing” he counters, not impressed by her reaction.

“Oh no, that was terrifying,” she says as though it is no more remarkable than the color of the earth. Had he not seen her blind terror while dangling above the abyss, he would’ve thought her words false. “But we saw _Stone Giants_ ,” she emphasizes as much as she can while keeping her voice down, her expression brightening even further. “They will never believe me when I tell this tale back home.”

It is unbelievable how she can be so certain that she will survive to speak of it. He thought her optimism was inspired by... not ignorance exactly, but still born from having experienced no danger worse than bandit attacks. Yet the Trolls and Giants have made clear this is not the case. She is neither blind to danger, nor does she underestimate the likelihood of death. Yet, somehow, she can still believe that she will one day return home.

“Why, the Trolls alone will be enough to make many doubt the truth of my words, but Stone Giants? They will declare me mad.”

This prospect doesn't seem to phase her in the slightest. If anything, she seems to relish the idea of being thought of as mad.

Thorin will never understand Hobbits.

“How certain you are that you will return home,” he says, more out of curiosity over how she can be so confident than anything else. Curiosity... and envy.

It has been a long time since Thorin dared to hope for more than fleeting moments that he might one day return home. And he cannot recall ever possessing the effortless confidence Bluebell seems to have.

Part of him wishes he could. It must be nice to have such faith in being able to return home.

“Oh, I am not certain of that at all,” she says with the same casualness she spoke of being terrified. “This is without a doubt the most dangerous adventure I have ever been on, and that when we are not even halfway through. But it would be silly to assume that things will end badly. How can I enjoy all the wonderful things on this adventure if I worry about what might go wrong?”

Thorin feels a wry expression grow at the answer that should not surprise him yet still does. She truly is an incurable optimist.

“You consider Stone Giants to be wondrous?” he asks, already knowing what the answer will be.

Bluebell does not disappoint. “Of course, they are _Stone Giants_ ,” she emphasizes with another giddy grin. Even with the blankets around her, he can see her move in a way that means her hands are fluttering around. “Stories come to life right in front of our very eyes!" she finishes too loudly, and quickly presses her lips together while glancing towards the others. None seem to have woken up, though. "Were you not amazed by them?” she asks in a once more soft voice, posing the question as though it has but one possible answer. An answer Thorin will not give.

“I was preoccupied by the imminent threat of meeting our doom,” he states the obvious, and feels a burst of exasperated bemusement as Bluebell laughs in response, muffling the sound into the blankets around her. Of course that is how she reacts.

“A fair point, Master Oakenshield,” she quips as though he made a joke instead of pointing out how close they all came to death, before she chuckles and shakes her head. “Truly, this is my luckiest adventure yet.”

“You call our near demise at the hands of Stone Giants _luck?_ ” he demands without bothering to hide his incredulity, barely remembering to keep his voice down. Incurable optimist and admiration for fantastical creatures or not, that is one of the most ridiculous things he has ever heard.

“I call _surviving_ Stone Giants most lucky indeed,” she counters with a grin, mischievous and pleased. Thorin feels another wry expression grow and concedes the admittedly fair point with a nod. All of them surviving is a true miracle all on its own, but surviving for all intents and purposes unscathed?

Thorin does not believe in luck. But if he did, he would agree that this was _most lucky indeed_.

“But truly, weren’t they simply marvelous?” Bluebell asks with the same incomprehensible delight as before, but Thorin is distracted by a sound, barely audible yet noticeably out of place. “And so _big_. Well, I mean, obviously they're big, they are Giants, but–”

“Be quiet,” he orders, straining to place what it is he is hearing over the slumbering breaths of his Company and the battle raging outside. He is hearing... the sounds of dirt being moved?

Bluebell heeds his command, straighting her back and eyes darting around in response to his own tension. She furrows her brow as she finally notices the same sounds he has, before she tilts her head, trying to locate them the same way he is.

The sounds are coming from... beneath the ground?

He lays a hand on Orcrist’s hilt as he gets to his feet and moves towards the middle of the cave where the noises are strongest– snaps his head towards Bluebell as she stands and the blankets around shift, blue light bursting through the gap, and he is lunging for his sister-sons while yelling at his Company to _wake up_ –

The ground drops out beneath them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone wondering why Bofur wasn't put on watch like he was in the movies... eh, I'm of the opinion that the only reason Thorin didn't take watch in the movies is because The Plot needed someone other than him to try to stop Bilbo from leaving.


	9. Chapter 9

Thorin has found a flaw in Orcrist.

Who, in their right mind, forges a blade that glows when Orcs or Goblins are near, and then _designs the sheath so that no light escapes it_.

He cannot believe he managed to miss this glaring defect. Had he not been admiring how perfectly the sheath fits? How seamlessly it closes? How had he not realized the obvious flaw this leads to?

Except he knows why. The reason for his stupidity is simple.

This is a blade that glows when Orcs or Goblins are near. _Of course_ the light will escape the sheath, that is the entire point of having it glow in the first place! The notion it might not simply hadn’t occurred to him, in the same way it would never occur to him that a key might not open the lock it was made for. It defeats the entire purpose of the object!

Had he discovered this flaw at any other time, he would’ve felt vindicated. None but Elves can show this kind of mind boggling stupidity.

As it is, he viciously curses himself for his blindness, and curses the smith trice over for being a complete and utter _moron_.

Thorin resists the urge to attack the Goblins herding them in earnest. Given how outnumbered they are, that will lead to certain death. Instead he tries to keep track of his Company while searching for potential escape routes.

He fails on both accounts. The Goblins surrounding them make it impossible to catch more than glimpses of the others, and he has yet to catch sight of Balin and Bluebell, their short height working against them. As for potential escape routes, not one path is empty enough that they might make a break for it, Goblins crowding from all sides. Goblins that are making a maddening amount of racket, but that is of no importance. All that matters is survival.

Survival becomes even less likely as they round a corner and come face to face with what seems to be an entire Mountain hollowed out, and Thorin realizes with horror that they’ve not fallen into a minor nest of Goblins as he had assumed.

They are in their main dwelling. Everywhere he looks are Goblins, swarming the decrepit structures and even the very walls themselves, their number uncountable.

The racket the vile things are making is amplified by the acoustics of the cavern to the point of physical pain. The glimpses he catches of the others shows they are just as affected. Bifur worst of all, pressing his hands against his ears as hard he can in an effort to block out the shrill noises.

It’s clear they are being herded towards a lone platform in the middle of the enormous cavern, connected to the rest of the nest by ramshackle bridges. Even at this distance, Thorin can make out a Goblin that towers above all others. A Goblin that is making the greatest racket of all.

As they come closer, the dissonant squawking of the large Goblin reveals itself to be words, and Thorin realizes with incredulity that the awful cacophony is an actual attempt at _music_.

“Down, down, down in Goblin Town!”

The assault on his hearing makes him grimace. He would not be surprised in the slightest if any of their ears started bleeding.

As the Goblins herd them onto the platform and cage them in, Thorin wastes no time in accounting for his Company, ignoring the burst of meaningless relief as he spots Balin at last.

Bluebell is missing.

He looks for her again, panic rising as he continues to fail to find her.

Did she escape the ambush? She was nearest to the entrance, she might’ve avoided the trap. No, he recalls catching glimpses of her as they fell. Has she managed to avoid being captured? Is she hiding as she did with the Trolls?

Has she fallen to her death below?

Thorin turns his attention to what is obviously the leader of the Goblins as it halts its racket with a final screech and the rest of the vile things halt their assault as well, the cavern echoing with fading dissonance. He cannot afford to be distracted, cannot give in to the sudden grief attempting to take hold, the anger at the unfairness of having his entire Company survive Stone Giants only to lose them here. He must keep a clear head at all costs.

It’s the only way even one of the others stands but the slightest chance of survival.

The leader crushes some smaller Goblins acting as a willing footstool for it as it heaves itself on a crude imitation of a throne. Unfortunately, the footstool survives the act. The leader leers down at them with vicious satisfaction, the emotion clear to read despite the grotesque growths on its face.

“Catchy, isn’t it?” it croaks in a grating voice that carries with ease over the chittering of their audience. Though compared to the agony from before, this can almost be called pleasant. “It’s one of my own compositions.”

One that puts even Elven “music” to shame, something Thorin had not believed possible before now.

“That’s not a song,” Balin tells it without even attempting to hide his disgust, and Thorin curses his friend for not keeping a clear head, something he almost never has to worry about. “It’s an abomination!”

Some of the others yell their agreement, but Thorin is far more focused on the agitated screeches of the Goblins surrounding them. Fortunately, they do not attack. Yet.

“Abominations, mutations, deviations,” the leader chortles with a negligent wave of its prong, making the Goblins quiet down for the most part. “That’s all you’re going to find down here,” it finishes, seemingly proud of this fact. It heaves itself off its throne so it can loom over them, and Thorin knew it was too much to ask that at least one of the footstool Goblins would be crushed to death this time. “Now,” it leers. “Who would be so bold as to come armed into _my_ Kingdom.”

A Goblin that believes it rules a Kingdom. How novel. Thorin supposes that means the crude headpiece it wears is meant to represent a crown.

“Spies? Thieves? Assassins?”

A _paranoid_ Goblin that believes it rules a Kingdom. Even better.

“Dwarves, your Malevolence,” one of the Goblins answers with an actual bow. Were the situation not so grave, the absurdity of it all would’ve made him roll his eyes. “We found them on the front porch.”

“Well don’t just stand there,” the leader snaps, and Thorin fights against a surge of blind panic because they are trapped, no escape possible– “Search them!” The relief they’ll not meet their end yet is buried beneath the knowledge that without their weapons, their doom is certain. “Every crack, every crevice!”

For the briefest of moments, Thorin wavers on whether to attack or not as the Goblins surge forward. If he attacks, it will lead to immediate death, yet is that not better than prolonging their suffering?

Were he alone, the answer would be yes. As it is, he’ll do all he can to keep his Company alive for as long as possible.

Thorin allows the Goblins to confiscate his Shield and most of his weapons. The others follow his lead, none giving more than a token struggle. All also manage to keep hold of at least one hidden blade, and while those will offer no great aid, it's still far better than being completely unarmed.

Thorin’s attention is caught by one of their bags being emptied, the contents so unexpected that for a moment he can do nothing but stare.

How in Durin’s name did those things get into their supplies?

“It is my belief, your Great Protuberance,” a Goblin says as it holds up a silver candleholder of Elven make. “–that they are in league with Elves!”

The declaration is so absurd it snaps him out of his confusion. He watches as the leader grabs the silver and squints at it attentively.

“Made in Rivendell, Second Age,” it declares with a certainty that makes Thorin narrow his eyes. Most Goblins don’t live long, but that is a consequence of their violent nature, not a lack of lifespan. In fact, Thorin suspects the vile things might share the same immortality as Elves, for there are those rare case of Goblins, the most vile, cruel and vicious of all, who survive the Ages themselves.

He now believes this Goblin to be one of those. As though things were not awful enough already.

“Couldn’t miss it,” the Ancient Goblin finishes while throwing the silver away as though it is but a piece of trash.

“It’s just a couple of keepsakes.” The near petulant tone, more than the volume, lets him catch the soft remark. When he glances at Nori, he sees the Dwarf give Dori a defensive look in response to his brother's disapproving frown.

Had he not needed to keep his focus on the threats surrounding them, Thorin would’ve glared. He knew of Nori’s habit of light fingers, but he never expected the Dwarf to do something like this while part of his Company.

They are no _thieves_.

He returns his full attention to the Ancient Goblin as it resumes talking. “What are you doing in these parts?”

Thorin is about to step forward to answer when Oin grabs his shoulder. “Don’t worry, lads. I’ll handle this,” he assures with false bravado, and Thorin is so surprised by the gesture he does not stop Oin from approaching the Ancient Goblin.

“No tricks, I want the truth,” it warns, before gaining a wide leer. “Warts and all.”

“You’re going to have to speak up,” Oin counters with unbelievable insolence, causing a wave of regret that he didn't stop Oin when he had the chance. While part of Thorin is proud of the Dwarf for his courage, most of him wishes the fool had the sense to _not_ taunt Goblins when surrounded by them. “Your boys flattened my trumpet.”

“I’ll flatten more than your trumpet!” the Ancient Goblin threatens while lifting its prong to attack and Thorin is already moving to pull Oin behind him–

“If it’s more information you want, I’m the one you should speak to!” Bofur’s rushed exclamation mercifully makes the Ancient Goblin halt its approach, and Thorin wastes no time in pulling Oin behind him. The gesture might be meaningless, but he cannot simply stand by and do nothing while his kin are in danger.

The Ancient Goblin squints at Bofur with consideration.

“...Go on,” it decides.

Bofur hesitates. Like Bluebell, he is excellent at talking and awful at lying.

The thought briefly causes Thorin to search for her once more, no matter how useless he knows the action to be.

“We were on the road,” Bofur says, and Thorin returns his full focus to the danger they are in. “Well, ‘s not so much a road as a path. Actually, it’s not even that come to think of it, it’s more like a track. Anyway, the point is, we were on this road, like a path, like a track, and then we weren’t.”

Thorin watches with dread as the Ancient Goblin gargles with annoyance. While he approves of Bofur’s attempt to delay their demise, it’s clear his ramblings will not hold the Goblin’s attention much longer.

“Which is a problem, because… we were supposed to be in Dunland last Tuesday?” Bofur, awful at lying as ever, looks back at the rest of them with a plea for help.

“Visiting distant relations,” Dori offers without hesitation, and Bofur quickly nods his agreement of the falsehood.

“Some inbreds on me mother’s side,” he continues to ramble. “We–”

“ _Shut up!_ ” The unexpected roar makes Thorin rear back with surprise and causes all Goblins to duck for cover, but the reaction doesn’t last long enough for them to be able to take advantage of it. “If they will not talk, we’ll make them squawk!” The words cause the entire cavern to burst into wild cheers, and Thorin’s heart sinks as he realizes they are out of time. Either they die with blade in hand, or suffer slow death by torture. “Bring out the banger, bring out the bone breaker!” the Ancient Goblin orders with relish, before it points at Ori with malicious glee. “Start with the youngest.”

“Wait!” The demand escapes him without his consent, another meaningless attempt to postpone their deaths. But it makes the Goblins fall silent, and while Thorin knows he can do no more than buy them a few more moments at best, he still puts himself between his Company and the Ancient Goblin.

If they are to meet their deaths, he will ensure they take this foul thing down with them.

“Well, well, well,” the Ancient Goblin rumbles with sudden delight, its gaze fixed on the braids denoting his ancestry. “Look who it is. Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thor. King under the Mountain," it delivers with a mocking bow, before it feigns a look of surprise that does nothing to disguise the sadistic pleasure it is feeling.  “Oh, but I’m forgetting. You don’t have a Mountain. And you’re not a King.”

Thorin gives the vile thing a cold glare. He might not be King under the Mountain, might have neither crown nor finery beyond a single ring and braid, but he is King of Durin's Folk. Nothing but death can take that burden away from him.

“Which makes you... nobody, really,” the Ancient Goblin delivers as though the insult is supposed to touch him. Thorin makes no effort to hide just how spectacularly it has failed at that.

If the thing comes but a little closer, he’ll be able to stick a blade in its guts. Though given how large that gut is, it would be wiser to jab the dagger into its brain. The growths on its face mean it would be best to do so by stabbing the blade through one of its eyes. That will require it to come closer still, but not by much.

The Ancient Goblin squints with annoyance, vexed by its failure to rile him up. How tragic.

Unfortunately, it returns to its throne with a gargling huff. That will make it more difficult to kill it. More difficult, but not impossible.

The Ancient Goblin sulks a moment longer, before it gains a slow and vicious leer. “I know someone who would pay a pretty price for your head,” it rumbles, before it actually lets a beat of silence pass as though it is attempting to tell a joke. “Just the head. Nothing attached.”

Its own words make it chortle as though this is the height of humor. Given the way the rest of the Goblins burst into cackles as well, it might be for their kind. Not that Thorin cares, he is far more preoccupied with figuring out how best to take down the foul thing in its new position. Perhaps instead of a blade through the eye, he should ram it through one of its ears.

“Perhaps you know of whom I speak. An old enemy of yours.”

Had the situation been different, Thorin might’ve been interested in what the thing is saying. As it is, the potential threat is meaningless next to the imminent one posed by the Goblins.

The Ancient Goblin’s next words change that. “A pale Orc, astride a white Warg.”

Impossible.

“Azog the Defiler was destroyed long ago.” He is barely aware of the words that escape him, too shocked by the words that cannot be true. He saw the limp body being carried away, the blood still gushing from the stump. None could have survived such a wound. “He was slain in battle long ago!” By his own hand, by the wound he inflicted on the monster who took his grandfather, father, brother, who took so many of their people the memories haunt him still, and the only, the _only_ sliver of solace he can find in that tragedy is that he managed to avenge all those fallen because Azog the Defiler is _dead_.

The Ancient Goblin chortles with glee, finding sadistic pleasure in his reaction. It makes Thorin realize that he is clenching his fists, is trembling with rage at the mere thought that _filth_ might yet live.

“So you think his defiling days are done, do you?” the Goblin rumbles with malicious joy and it must be lying, wishes nothing but to cause pain for the sake of pain because Azog the Defiler is _dead_. “Send word to the pale Orc,” it aims at another Goblin. “Tell him I have found his price.”

Thorin only realizes that he is reaching for a blade to cut out that lying tongue when Dwalin grasps his wrist, exerting enough force that Thorin cannot simply shrug him off. He grits his teeth and glares at the vile thing, wishing desperately that it would get off its throne so he can slit its _lying_ throat wide open!

His reaction makes the filth squawk with glee, before it launches into another abomination of song without warning. All other Goblins join in on the racket, and the sudden assault on his hearing is so great it snaps him out of his fury. He glances at Dwalin to let him know he is clear headed once more. Dwalin releases his grip, grimacing from the renewed cacophony all around them.

Thorin ignores the racket as best he can, considering their next move. Given that the vile things are screeching about how best to torture them, they have run out of time. They must attack now.

They will die now.

The thought erases all traces of anger. Thorin looks at his sister-sons, both visibly pained from the assault on their hearing, yet still positioning themselves to best protect the others. Both so brave, so full of life.

So very young.

Thorin lets out a harsh breath, the physical pain of the racket meaningless next to the knowledge he will lose them both.

He will lose Fili and Kili. Will lose Balin and Dwalin, Oin and Gloin, Dori, Nori and Ori, Bofur, Bombur and Bifur. He will lose his Company, his people, his kin.

He will lose his family.

The one solace he has is that he will be lost with them.

He meets Balin’s gaze and sees his friend look back with the same bleak resignation he is feeling. Sees the fierce desire to take as many goblins down with them as they can in Dwalin's glare.

He sees Fili look at him with rising denial, refusing to admit the inevitable. Sees Kili, Dori, Ori, Bofur and Bombur look at him with hope, with a belief he’ll somehow be able to save them still.

The sight causes his anger to return, rage at the unfairness of it all, a burning hatred for these Goblins who dare to take his kin away from him, and Thorin will ensure they go down while taking as many of the vile things as they can, ensure he takes down that disgusting, foul, _lying_ –

A Goblin screams with pure primal terror, so loud it causes all others to fall silent, before the mass of Goblins is scrambling away from something as fast they can and Thorin catches a glimpse of distinctive blue light.

He's more focused on the way the Ancient Goblin has pushed itself against its throne as though it wishes to disappear into it. “I know that sword,” it actually whimpers, the last clear thought Thorin has. “It is the Goblin Cleaver, the Biter, the Blade that Sliced a Thousand Necks!”

Part of Thorin is aware of the words but most of him is viciously cursing himself for not attacking sooner because the Goblins have flown into a frenzy, are tearing and biting and clawing, and now he is fighting in earnest, throwing Goblins off the platform and trying to draw his blades except he doesn’t have the room to maneuver, none of them do, and had they attacked but one moment sooner–

“Kill them! Kill them all!”

Thorin yells with pain as a Goblin digs its claws deep into his neck, blindly manages to tear it off his back and throws it into the abyss while struggling to fight off four more Goblins, manages to thrown another off the platform but two others immediately replace it, forcing him to the floor, and he catches glimpses of his Company being overpowered, sees a Goblin raising a blade above him and time seems to slow down as he realizes there is–

 _White Silence_.

“Take up arms.”

The words come from far away, slow and dragging. Thorin realizes he is gazing up at the ceiling of a cavern he somehow knows.

“Fight.”

His ears are ringing and his head is pounding. He's laying down on something, surrounded by the warmth of living bodies.

“Fight!”

The world snaps into focus, and Thorin lunges to his feet, grabs his Shield and Orcrist, and he _fights_.

He defends Dwalin from one side as his friend grabs the rest of their weapons and distributes them among the others. Tharkûn covers Dwalin’s other side, Glamdring and staff both whirling with lethal precision. Whatever Magic the Wizard used, it’s still affecting the Goblins. The leader continues to lay slumped on its throne, and most others have yet to get to their feet. The relatively few attacking them are dazed and disorientated, easily slain.

“Follow me!” Thakûn yells as the others finish arming themselves, and they waste no time in doing just that. Thorin keeps track of his Company and forcefully reminds himself not to look for Bluebell, cannot afford to waste precious time like that. He also prays that the Wizard truly knows the way out of this place and is not merely running at random. The only part of him not busy with that spares a thought of intense gratitude for the Wizard’s excellent sense of timing. Had Tharkûn arrived but a moment later, some of his Company would’ve already been lost. Including himself, and had the circumstances allowed it, the notion of not being able to protect his kin as they flee from Goblins would’ve been unbearable.

They manage to cross the bridge before the Goblins finish recovering and start pursuing them in earnest. In no time at all the vile things are everywhere, and Thorin can no longer keep track of his Company, can do nothing but focus on battle. He can only pray that all manage to keep up and follow the guiding light of his and Tharkûn’s blades.

The insanity of battle is broken by fleeting moments of clarity. Hearing Dwalin ordering the others to charge. Seeing Oin whirl a pole around himself with brutal efficiency. Cutting the ropes supporting a decrepit structure so it collapses onto the Goblins attempting to swing towards them. Cutting another rope so the platform his Company is on swings across the abyss. Catching Fili as he jumps off last. A flash of light as Tharkûn somehow breaks of a boulder. Using the falling rock as cover and weapon both.

They’re crossing another bridge when the Ancient Goblin bursts through the wood in front of them without warning, forcing them back. Except Goblins are already blocking the way, trapping them on the bridge.

As the haze of battle lifts slightly, Thorin becomes aware of the pounding at his temple where a Goblin managed to smash a rock against his head, the stinging of the gash in his neck, the throbbing in his thigh from when a knife found a gap in his armour.

All of that is utterly unimportant, no wound great enough to impact his ability to fight. Thorin quickly accounts for his Company, the effort conscious in a way it wasn’t before, feels a stab of panic as he realizes Bluebell is missing–

She’s been missing since the beginning. Has been lost since the beginning.

The pain of that loss hits him with a sudden strength he cannot afford, so Thorin forces himself to ignore it. The rest of his Company yet lives. He cannot allow himself to be distracted if he is to keep them that way.

If he is to save Fili and Kili.

“You thought you could escape _me?_ ” the Ancient Goblin screeches, and Thorin sees it attacking Tharkûn from the corner of his vision. He curses himself for being unable aid the Wizard, but he doesn’t dare to abandon his position when fear of Orcrist seems to be one of the only things stopping the other Goblins from charging forward. The number of eyes fixed on the glowing blade are equal to the number watching their leader fight.

But then, it doesn’t matter that he must hold his position. The others cannot aid Tharkûn either, there simply isn't enough room to maneuver.

Or rather, they cannot aid him much. As the Ancient Goblin swings its prong with a speed that forces Tharkûn to bend back to the point of overbalancing in order to dodge the hit, Ori and Nori waste no time in catching the Wizard before he loses his footing.

“What’re you going to do now, Wizard?” the Ancient Goblin taunts, offering a perfect opening. Ori and Nori need no further encouragement to push Tharkûn upright, and the added momentum allows the Wizard to jab his staff into one of the Ancient Goblin’s eyes before it can react. As it rears back with a pained screech, Tharkûn exploits the lack of guard by slicing Glamdring’s entire length through that vile gut.

For a moment that seems to last forever, nothing happens. Even the Goblins have gone completely silent. Then the thing's insides burst out and splash at its feet. The Ancient Goblin lifts a hand, not so much as to push its intestines back inside as to hold them with stunned realization.

“That’ll do it.”

Tharkûn ensures the words are truth by slashes the vile thing’s throat, causing it to fall forward with a final gargle.

The impact of its landing is so great it breaks the supports.

Thorin barely manages to grab the side of the bridge in time, hears his Company cry out as they fall and fall and _fall_ , banging against the rocks, surroundings a blur and he realizes this is the end, they will all–

Wood catches on both sides, caught between a narrow gap and slowing down, and Thorin feels a glimmer of hope some of his kin might yet survive, that Fili and Kili–

They crash onto the ground, the force of it throwing him off the bridge, landing in the worst possible way and crying out at the stabbing pain denoting that he has either broken or fractured something but that is of no importance, all that matters is whether the others have survived, and Thorin forces himself his feet while looking at the ruins of the bridge–

Fili and Kili are alive. The relief that causes is so great it takes him a moment to account for the rest of his Company.

Balin and Oin have been thrown off as well. Balin is holding his head with a dazed expression, while Oin is clutching at his side with a pained grimace as he staggers to his feet. Tharkûn was thrown off as well, but the Wizard seems no worse for the wear as he pushes himself back up. Ori, Nori, Dori and Bofur are laying on top of the ruined wood as Fili is, impossible to tell how injured they are, but all are moving, clearly alive. Dwalin, Gloin, Bofur and Bifur are buried beneath the wood with Kili, and for one heart stopping moment, Thorin is unable to determine whether Gloin and Bifur have survived, both of them limp with terrifying stillness. Then Gloin pushes off a piece of wood, and the shift causes a plank to fall on Bifur, making the Dwarf curse with a volume easily heard over the pained sounds the others are letting out.

They’re alive. All of them are _alive_.

Thorin has to grab the wall besides him to keep himself from falling down, literally faint with relief.

“Well that could’ve been worse.”

Bofur’s taunting of the fates is rewarded by the Ancient Goblin’s corpse crashing down on them, and for one hysterical moment, Thorin almost feels like laughing.

“You have _got_ to be joking.”

Dwalin’s pained and furious exclamation does make him snort with laughter, and Thorin knows he is entering the delirious state of mind that only occurs after surviving manic battle such as this.

His reaction makes Dwalin give a fierce glare, promising future retribution. Thorin cannot help but give a wild grin back, hysterical amusement growing stronger. He moves forward to help the others get back to their feet.

“Gandalf!” Kili’s panicked cry obliterates all trace of amusement and makes him snap his head up to locate the threat his sister-son has spotted–

A legion of Goblins is scaling down the rock, their number uncountable.

“Get up!” he orders, heaving Fili and Ori off the ruins and biting through the flare of agony it causes to his injured shoulder. Part of him notes that he has merely sprained his shoulder, if badly, given that he succeeds in yanking Ori off, but most of him is focused on Balin, Oin and Tharkûn as they get the others to their feet, the frantic rush from before back in full force.

“Follow me!” Tharkûn orders, taking the lead in the narrow tunnels. Thorin guards the rear and once more prays that the Wizard knows where they are going and is not merely choosing directions at random in this cursed maze.

Tharkûn does know the way. They turn a corner and golden sunlight shines at the end of the tunnel, one of the most beautiful sights Thorin has ever seen. He watches as every single one of his Company runs into the light, unable to believe all have made it–

Not all. Not Bluebell. Not the brave little Hobbit who decided to join for no other reason than because she wishes to help them reclaim their home. Bluebell, who finds joy in every situation, no matter how grave. Who delights in new experiences. Who is the worst watch he has ever seen despite her best attempts to improve. She's gone.

She’s dead.

Except he doesn’t know with absolute certainty that she is. He didn't see her fall, didn't see her body. She might've managed to remain unseen, might've followed them until they fall. She might still be up there. Might yet live.

Is he willing to abandon her?

He wishes he could say no, so desperately wishes to turn back and search until he finds her, dead or alive. Yet to do so would mean certain doom for the rest of his Company. Unless he goes back for her alone, and he wants to, oh, he so desperately wants to, but that would mean abandoning the others and he cannot abandon them, cannot abandon his kin, his family, he _cannot_ , but he cannot abandon Bluebell either.

He must. Must leave her behind, must leave her to her death. Must live with the knowledge that he has failed her as he has failed so many others.

Thorin grits his teeth and runs into the sunlight, forces himself to keep moving and to not look back. He fears he’ll not be able to continue if he does. Fears he’ll be trapped by the conflicting desires of wishing to protect those who remain or return for the one lost.

He forces himself to think of the others. The sun is setting, they don't have much time left to gain enough distance. But if they hurry, they can make it. Goblins are fiercely territorial, they never move far away from their nests.

Thorin keeps track of his Company as they run, urging those who falter to continue on. Nori is having the most trouble keeping up, one leg injured enough to cause a limp, but Dori offers his brother enough support that Nori is able to keep up the necessary pace.

The last rays of sunlight are fading when Thorin concludes they have gained enough distance and allows the others to halt. The moment he stops running, his injured leg flares up with sudden agony and his lungs scream at him with exhaustion, the need for air brutal and impossible to ignore. He does another headcount of his remaining Company while trying to catch his breath, sees all of them gasping for air as he is. All aside from Tharkûn, who is not only breathing with ease, he seems to have suffered no injury whatsoever. The Wizard is doing a headcount of his Company as well.

“Where's Bluebell?”

Tharkûn’s question makes him close his eyes, grief and self-loathing momentarily overtaking all else.

“Where is our Hobbit?”

The note of rising fear makes him let out a harsh breath. He opens his eyes and meets Tharkûn’s gaze.

Thorin finds he cannot say the words he needs to, for reasons that have nothing to do with his burning lungs.

He doesn't need to speak. His expression is enough to make Tharkûn’s eyes widen with shocked realization, followed by a denial Thorin wishes were true. “Where is our Hobbit?” he repeats more forcefully. As though he can make her reappear if only he continues to ask. Thorin sees the others look around with growing fear and denial as well.

Balin has closed his eyes with grieved resignation, while Dwalin is clenching his jaw with helpless anger. Both have already accepted what the others are still attempting to deny.

Thorin straightens his back, fortifying himself against the words he does not wish to say but must–

“Here! I’m here, I’m here!” He spins around, unable to believe what he is hearing– and there she is. Clothes torn and covered in dirt, possessing no blade beyond her Elven one. Gasping for breath, her hair a wild mess, a dark bruise across one cheek, cradling an arm close in injury.

She’s alive.

“Bluebell!” The joyous cries sound from several of the others. Thorin absently watches Fili and Kili race over and Kili pulling her into a hug, mindful of her injured arm. He hears Balin laugh with stunned disbelief while Bofur whoop with joy, sees Tharkûn lean onto his staff with overwhelming relief.

Most of him can only continue to watch Bluebell. Watch her gasp for breath, the hand rapidly tapping her injured arm, the nervous energy dancing through her body.

She’s _alive_.

“Where were you?” Fili demands at the same time that Kili asks “How did you escape?”

Bluebell, still gasping for breath, somehow manages to launch into a torrent of words even while struggling for air. “I hid from the Goblins and tried to follow you but a Goblin spotted me and we fought and fell, I was most lucky to land onto a pile of mushrooms, but there was a horrible creature down there who wanted to eat me and I had to play a game of riddles and _this is really not the time to be talking about this_ ,” she wheezes, the need for air stealing her voice at last. Yet despite her struggle to breathe, she still manages to gasp out the words _Goblins_ and _sunset_.

Thorin laughs. It causes all to look at him, and as he looks back at them, looks over his Company, his _entire_ Company, he feels a wild grin grow.

“We’ve gained enough distance from the nest. They’ll not come after us.” Just saying the words out loud causes his grin to grow.

“...We made it,” Fili realizes, soft and incredulous, unable to believe his own words. Thorin still has trouble believing it himself, but that does not make it any less true.

“We did,” he confirms, and watches the realization sink in on the others, the dawning joy that all yet live. “All of us did.”

They made it. Hurt and injured, all of their supplies lost but _they made it_. They survived, all of them did, they faced impossible odds yet all still live, and Thorin feels light headed, is delirious with joy at this impossible gift, this pure miracle because _all of them have made it_.

His entire Company is _alive_.

Of course the miracle is ruined by Warg howls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those interested in my headcanon of Orcrist's creation, it basically went like this.
> 
> Ancient Elven Smith: I have done it. I have finished my life's work, I have created the most perfect blade in existence, have spend an age getting every single detail right, from the top of the pommel to the tip of the sheath. I literally cannot change a single thing about this blade without ruining it, given it's as close to in destruction as it possible, but that is of no importance, because this is flawless, is pure perfection given physical form!
> 
> But while I am the most amazing smith in existence, I am not the most amazing warrior, and my life's work deserves to be wielded with the same perfection as itself.
> 
> *runs towards Famous Ancient Elven Warrior*
> 
> Here! Go forth and slay Orcs and Goblins with this marvel of pure perfection! And then let me know in detail just how perfect it was.
> 
> *Famous Ancient Elven Warrior goes to war with Orcs and Goblins. Famous Ancient Elven Warrior comes back victoriously.*
> 
> Smith: Well? Tell me exactly how perfect it is!
> 
> Warrior: This sword is the most amazing blade I have ever fought with. It's smooth like water, sharp like diamond, and balanced like the very light of the stars themselves. There's just one small problem.
> 
> Smith: What? No there isn't, that blade is pure perfection! It is absolutely, completely, and utterly flawless! What could possibly be wrong with it?
> 
> Warrior: The sheath closes seamlessly.
> 
> Smith: Yes of course it does, that's part of its perfection. 
> 
> Warrior: Yeah, except the sheath also traps every bit of blue light. You know, the thing we use as a warning system so we don't get ambushed?
> 
> Smith: ...Oh #$@&%*!!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> And that is the story of how Orcrist was made.
> 
> Also, I know Orcrist and Glamdring don't glow in the movies, but I always imagine that they do. Seriously, it makes no sense for those blades not to glow blue like Sting does.


	10. Chapter 10

They run. The howls came from up the Mountain, and in their current condition, they cannot afford to engage the Orc pack while they have the advantage of the high ground. They cannot afford to engage the Orcs at all, but there is no way to avoid the confrontation.

So they run. Slowly, far too slowly, no matter the second wind given by the urgency of the situation. Thorin knows they’ll not be able to run for long, they cannot waste too much energy, but if they can just reach a better position to defend themselves...

Except, of course, they end up in a worse position. More specifically, they end up on the edge of a cliff.

Before they can attempt to backtrack, the Wargs catch up, and they lose far too precious time in disposing of them. When they finally do succeed in getting rid of them, it’s too late to try to get to another position. The Orc pack is almost upon them.

They could chose to hold their ground, but the difficulty they had in taking down mere Wargs has shown just how compromised their condition is. Open conflict with the Orcs will lead to certain death.

The thought of losing his Company after they managed to survive so much is unbearable, so Thorin orders them to “Climb!”

“Up into the trees!” Tharkûn feels the need to waste time elaborating, but Thorin is far more focused on giving Oin a boost so he doesn’t strain his injuries further and watching the rest of his Company race to get into the trees. Fili and Kili help Bluebell up to spare her arm, while Dwalin gives Nori a boost to minimize the stress placed on his leg, Bifur heaving him up the rest of the way.

“Thorin!” Balin’s urging makes him start to climb himself, ignoring the painful flaring it causes to his wounds. When Balin clasps his arm, Thorin looks around again to see if all have made it into the trees, trusting Balin to keep him steady.

All have made it. Thorin turns his focus to getting into a better position himself, Balin’s aid ensuring he doesn’t strain his injuries more than necessary.

For what feels like an eternity, they wait. Then Wargs burst into view, snarling and howling, circling the trees they are in. The Orc pack soon follows. And Thorin’s every thought is lost.

That cannot be Azog. He killed the vile thing, it _cannot_ be Azog.

Except it is. Pale as corpses, body mutilated with scars, a vicious spike driven through the stump of the arm he cut off himself. Cruel eyes meeting his own, the malice in them hauntingly familiar.

That is Azog the Defiler. That is the monster that killed his grandfather, father, brother, that killed so many of his people the bodies covered the ground as far as the eye could see, and suddenly Thorin is back at on the battlefield, the bodies of the fallen all around him, the stench of death overwhelming all else and it cannot be Azog because he killed that filth except he didn’t because Azog is here, he survived, he lives while so many of his people do not.

The monster speaks, the same foul speech he still hears in his night terrors except this isn’t a dream, isn’t a memory, this is _real_ , and he hears his own name, hears his _father’s_ name and how dare that filth speak of his father, how dare he to live while his family does not, how dare he to have survived!

Thorin is snapped out of his shock when the Wargs attack, launching themselves at the trees with enough force to make them shake like mere twigs, making him grasp the trunk to prevent himself from falling down. Snapping jaws tear off thick branches as though they’re nothing but kindle.

The tree Dwalin, Nori and Bifur are in gives out beneath the assault and terror overtakes all else as he watches them fall– they jump onto the tree Bofur and Bombur are in.

Thorin doesn’t have time to be relieved, for the Wargs uproot that tree as well, causing it to fall on the tree he, Balin and Oin are in, making all of them jump to the next tree, before that one falls as well and they must jump once more, his injuries screaming at him as the does.

They end up in the tree standing on the very edge of the cliff. Thorin accounts for his Company the moment he manages to get a secure enough grip, no room for relief as he sees that all have made it, the Wargs already assaulting this tree as well, and Thorin looks up at the Wizard and yells at him to “Do something!”

“I _can’t_ ,” Tharkûn cries back, anguished and fearful, making Thorin lose the battle against his own panic. Without the Wizard’s help, they stand no chance of survival.

Not against Azog.

“Thorin, what do we do?” Fili demands, terror barely contained, but Thorin has no answer, can think of nothing to save them because they’re trapped, an abyss on one side and Orcs on the other, and Azog is _smiling_ , is delighted with their terror, is drawing out their agony, and the Wargs are snapping at the branches but refrain from toppling the tree for no other reason than that Azog wishes to see them suffer–

Fire streaks through the air and hits a Warg in the head, making the beast howl with pain and retreat. The others pull back as well as the ground is set ablaze with unnatural swiftness.

“Fili!” Tharkûn’s voice makes him look up at the Wizard, just in time to see him drop another ball of fire into the hands of his sister-son. No, they’re pines, set alight with Magic, and Fili is using his own to light another held by Bluebell.

Thorin grabs a pine near him as Tharkûn drops more flaming ones down, Balin catching one and holding it out so Thorin can set his own ablaze, all the others doing the same.

They attack the Wargs and force them back, the flames continuing to spread with unnatural swiftness. His Company cheers with meaningless joy, yet Thorin cannot help a flicker of hope, no matter that they’re still trapped and are now surrounded by fire as well–

The roots give out. Thorin barely manages to keep himself from falling off, hears his people cry out and looks up to see that somehow none have fallen to their death, except then they do and he screams with denial as Dori and Ori fall– Tharkûn manages to lower his staff just in time to save them, Dori clutching at the wood with desperation while Ori dangles from his leg.

A laugh he thought he would never again hear outside of his night terrors makes him turn his gaze back towards Azog.

Azog the Defiler is watching them with the same kind of pleasure he showed when he cut off his grandfather’s head. When he threw it at his feet as though it was nothing but a piece of trash.

Thorin looks at the monster that killed his family, the monster he failed to destroy, and cold rage overtakes all else.

If he is to die here, he will die atoning for his failure. He will die taking Azog the Defiler down with him.

Thorin stands. Slowly, careful to ensure his shifting weight does not send the tree plummeting over the edge. It would be easy for Azog to prevent his actions, but Thorin knows the vile thing will not do so. Azog is taking too much pleasure in drawing out their suffering.

Thorin draws Orcrist and lifts his Shield.

How strange that it feels like the first time he did so, when his Shield was nothing but an oaken branch. When the weight had been unfamiliar, when it had yet to be augmented. When he had yet to refine the branch into the Shield hidden within.

This is not a mere branch. This is the Shield he spent years perfecting, the Shield that has protected him for over a century.

This is the Shield that allowed him to defeat Azog once. This time, he will ensure that defeat is permanent.

Azog the Defiler gives a vicious grin and draws his mace, every part of him daring Thorin to attack.

It is a challenge Thorin gladly accepts.

Lifting his Shield into a defensive position and raising Orcrist to attack, Thorin starts running, ignoring the agony it causes to his leg. The injury to his shoulder means he needs to gain enough momentum. While the wound will still prevent him from striking at full force, the combination of speed and Orcrist’s edge should compensate for the loss in strength.

Azog charges, the white Warg leaping forward, and Thorin calculates the angle he’ll need to strike at while blocking the attack– his leg gives out at the worst possible time, destroying his balance and ruining his defense.

Azog’s charge hits him at full strength, throwing him to the ground, pained and dazed.

The laugh that haunts his night terrors snaps him out of his disorientation, and Thorin forces himself to ignore the pain, to get back to his feet– metal smashes into his his face with devastating force, tasting blood as his vision blurs, every thought lost.

Piercing agony clears his head. Thorin realizes that the scream he is hearing is his own and that Azog’s Warg is lifting him in it’s jaw, it’s teeth crushing his chest and stealing his breath.

Thorin refuses to allow himself to be killed by Azog’s _pet_. He lifts Orcrist and slashes at the beast, but the Warg throws him away before he can cut off it’s maw. Then Thorin hits the ground and blind pain overwhelms all else.

Every part of him is screaming in agony, his chest throbbing in a way that steals the very air from his lungs.

He feels warm. Warm in a way that is familiar, warm in a way he never wishes to be.

He sees fire. He hears his people crying out. Hears his family crying out.

Is he home?

The cool touch of metal makes him focus on the figure standing over him.

The figure is an Orc. An Orc that is holding a blade to his throat.

Thorin remembers where he is, realizes he has lost his grip on Orcrist and blindly searches for it while trying to force himself to stand, to lift his Shield, to _fight_.

His body refuses to obey his commands. He’s not even sure whether the hand searching for Orcrist is truly moving or whether it is merely his imagination.

The Orc that isn’t Azog lifts it’s blade, holding it high so it can behead him in one stroke.

Part of Thorin keeps reaching for Orcrist, keeps trying to lift his Shield to defend himself, keeps trying to fight.

Most of him just feels tired.

So this is how he will meet his end. Surrounded by fire and beheaded on order of Azog the Defiler. He will die in a night terror come to life. Die failing his people one last time.

He will die failing his family.

Part of him feels almost relieved. At least he’ll not be forced to watch Azog slaughter his family once more. At least he’ll not see Fili and Kili die.

The Orc grins down at him with malicious glee. Thorin refuses to look away, no matter how much part of him wishes to close his eyes.

He will not cower before death.

The Orc’s grin grows and the blade comes down– something crashes into its side, the blade going wide and the Orc stumbling back, a flash of blue disappearing into its flesh.

What?

The Orc screeches and falls to its knees, the flash of blue stabbing it again and again, until the Orc turns limp and silent.

“Stay back, or I will cut off your other arm!”

Thorin finally realizes who he is looking at.

Bluebell. Standing between him and Azog, putting her life at risk for him, and Thorin feels a new rush of urgency, redoubles his efforts to get up because he must protect–

Thorin passes out.

* * *

 

Bluebell.

It is the first thought he has upon waking, dazed and disorientated.

“She’s alright.” The words make him focus on the person kneeling besides him. Who turns out to be Tharkûn.

Tharkûn’s words make no sense whatsoever. Bluebell is facing Azog. No one survives Azog.

“Everyone is alright.” The words are even more confusing than the last. Everyone cannot be alright, they’re all about to die. If not from falling, then by Azog’s hand.

“Thorin!” The cry clears his head and makes him scramble to his feet– falling back down, vision going black as agony overwhelms all else, but Thorin forces himself to push through it, nothing matters beyond–

Kili slides up beneath his shoulder, offering support, but Thorin doesn’t care about that, only cares about the warmth of his sister-son, the sound of his breathing and Kili is alive, Azog didn’t kill him, he is _alive_.

So is Fili, halting behind his brother and looking at him like he doesn’t know what to next, eyes flickering between Kili and himself. Thorin reaches out a hand and Fili immediately grasps it, the warmth of his skin convincing Thorin that he’s not imagining things, that Fili somehow managed to survive Azog as well.

Then he sees Dori, Ori, Dwalin, Oin, Bifur, Balin, sees every one of his people, all of them alive, none taken by Azog and–

Bluebell is holding his Shield.

Why is she holding his Shield?

“It fell when the eagles carried away you but I managed to grab it before they took me as well and _are you alright?_ ”

Thorin needs a moment to even understand what she is talking about. He realizes that she’s answering the question he must’ve asked out loud. And that answer somehow involves eagles.

No, not eagles. The Eagles.

For the first time, Thorin pays true attention to his surroundings. Part of him had already noted the lack of Orcs, but now he sees that they are in an entirely different place than before. They’re standing on another cliff, and the Eagles are circling the sky above. A sky that is alight with the rays of the setting sun.

Just how long has he been unconscious?

“Thorin, are you alright?” Fili’s urgent question draws his gaze back to his sister-son, and he sees both him and Kili look at him with worry.

Thorin smiles. “I’m fine,” he assures them, and lets go of Fili’s hand so he can gently push Kili from beneath his arm, standing on his own strength instead. The movement makes his injuries scream at him even more fiercely, but Thorin ignores it with ease. The physical pain is meaningless next to the knowledge that all have made it. All of them are still alive

His family is still alive.

His attention is drawn back to Bluebell as she lets out a harsh sigh of relief, wavering in place in a way that indicates she is in true danger of fainting. Thorin moves towards her to steady her– barely manages to catch himself before he falls back down. He waves Kili off as his sister-son moves forward to offer support once more, forces his body to obey him instead. He has no desire to cause undue worry over his health.

“Oh please don’t move, you’re injured, you need to rest, all of us do really, but you–”

“Bluebell,” he interrupts, feeling a rush of fondness for the Hobbit who never seems to run out of things to say. Bluebell halts her chatter with a startled expression. “I’m fine,” he repeats, speaking nothing but the truth. Yes, he is injured, significantly so, but those wounds are of no importance.

All of them are still alive. All of them survived Azog the Defiler. That is a gift Thorin did not believe possible.

Bluebell opens her mouth, and Thorin cannot help a burst of wry affection as he prepares for another stream of chatter. Unexpectedly, Bluebell shakes her head instead, before she gives a hesitant smile. Then she blinks with sudden realization and looks down at his Shield.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I still– here,” she finishes, moving closer and awkwardly holding out his Shield, her injured arm almost causing her to drop it. Thorin catches his Shield before she can lose her grip, feels a sudden tightening of his throat as he holds the familiar weight and realizes just how easily he could have lost it.

The wood holds a large new fracture he will have to examine in detail later on, to determine the extent of how it affects the integrity of his Shield. The lack of tools at his disposal means he’ll not be able to fix it, but Thorin cannot find it within himself to care.

His Shield is still whole. Damaged, but whole.

So is his Company.

“Thank you,” he tells Bluebell, grateful in a way that goes beyond words. His Shield is not the most strong, nor is it the most resilient. It is, at best, an average tool for protection. But it is his in a way nothing else is.

Thorin would rather lose a thousand Orcrists than lose his Shield.

“You’re beautiful,” Bluebell replies with a dazed expression, making him snort with laughter. The rest of his Company let out various sounds of amusement as well, while Bluebell’s eyes widen with sudden realization. “Welcome,” she corrects herself, in equal parts mortified and helplessly amused by her own slip. “I meant to say, you’re welcome.”

Thorin’s own smile grows, before his attention is drawn to the Eagles as they let out piercing cries and break away from the cliff, flying towards the horizon.

Thorin feels his breath catch as he looks out behind them, all else fading away. He barely even notices that he is moving forward.

“Is that what I think it is?” he vaguely hears Bluebell ask, but Thorin cannot tear his eyes away from the sight that makes longing overwhelm all else.

“Erebor,” Tharkûn says, the name making his heart clench painfully. “The Lonely Mountain. The last of the Great Dwarven Kingdoms of Middle-Earth.”

“Our home,” he breathes out, barely able to believe that they are truly going back. That for once, the sight of his home will not be a reminder of loss, that it is not something to be avoided at all cost. Not this time.

This time, they are going home.

“A raven!” Oin’s excited exclamation makes him glance at the bird that most definitely isn’t a raven. “The birds are returning to the Mountain!” he finishes with even greater excitement, and Thorin feels a burst of wry affection for the Dwarf who puts far too much stock in signs and portents.

“That, my dear Oin, is a thrush,” Tharkûn points out with the same bemusement Thorin is feeling. Yet for once, Thorin finds that he agrees with Oin.

 _Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks, and the setting sun with the last light of Durin’s Day will shine upon the keyhole_.

“But we’ll take it as a sign,” he decides, and cannot help but give a fond glance at Bluebell, who so firmly believes in luck. “A good omen.”

His words make her laugh, bright and true. “You’re right. I do believe the best is yet to come.”

Thorin feels involuntary amusement grow at her taunting of the fates, his gaze already back on their home. It's absurd to even entertain the notion that things will get better. They’re injured, have lost all of their supplies, and they are now being hunted by Azog the Defiler as well. The odds of even reaching home, never mind reaching it in time, are far too low to offer any real chance at success. That’s without adding in the impossibility of reclaiming the Arkenstone from Smaug. Yet despite knowing how irrational it is, right now Thorin cannot help but hope.

They survived Stone Giants. They survived being ambushed by Goblins. They survived Azog the Defiler himself.

They survived more than should ever be possible. They survived without losing even a single person.

They’ve beaten the most impossible of odds once.

Maybe, just maybe... they can do so again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, I actually finished the first movie! Me, who always abandons my stories before reaching any significant plot point! I genuinely can't believe it.
> 
> I'm debating this on whether to continue this or not. One on hand, I really do love writing this story. On the other, I've gotten 3 reviews on the last four chapters I've posted, and posting something only to get a void of silence in return is soul crushing in ways I cannot put into words. I try not to let it get to me, because I really do love writing Thorin's grumpy pov, but getting nothing but silence is discouraging in ways I can't describe. So if you want me to continue this, now is the time to speak up.
> 
> EDIT: Wow, I did not expect the response I've gotten. Everyone who left a review, thank you so much! You've revived my muse back to full strength, and I am now officially continuing this story.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired by all the amazing reviews I got. Big thanks to every single one of you! You guys revived my muse :)

The moment doesn’t last, of course. The sun is setting, and they are stuck on this outcropping with no food or water. Trying to climb down in the dark in their condition is certain suicide, they must wait until morning. The climb itself will take most of the day, meaning they’ll not be able to search for food and water until evening falls. By then, the combination of their injuries, the lack of substance, and the exertion of getting down will have weakened them to terrifying level.

“Well, that is not entirely true,” Tharkûn says with a smile he has no right to wear in their current situation, before he reaches into his robes and pulls out something wrapped in distinctive leaves. Thorin feels a scowl grow at the obvious Elven item– sucks in a sharp breath as Tharkûn uncovers the wrappings.

Waybread. _Five_ slices of Waybread.

Thorin stares at the literal fortune in the Wizard’s hands, unable to believe what he is looking at. That is enough to keep all of them fed for an entire month at the absolute _least_.

“How came you by these?” he demands, incredulous. Elves guard Waybread more fiercely than they do anything else, the effort needed to create it meaning they are loathe to part with it.

“It was a gift from a dear friend. One who approves of my desire to help you and your people,” the Wizard replies with a pointed look.

Thorin had not thought it possible, but he is feeling genuine, sincere gratitude towards an Elf. He knows “the friend” Tharkûn speaks of is not Lord Elrond, that Elf made it clear he would never offer aid such as this. But another apparently did.

Whoever it was, he owes them the greatest of debts. With this, his Company will not be weakened to the most terrifying of levels. With this, they have a true chance of recovering from their injuries.

“Oh thank the Valar, I am _starving_ ,” Bluebell declares, Bombur besides her nodding with fierce agreement. Tharkûn chuckles and takes hold of a slice to pass around his Company.

Except when he hands it to Bluebell, she devours the entire thing so fast Thorin doesn’t even have time to understand what he is looking at.

Thorin stares at her with utter horror, unable to believe he just witnessed _the loss of an entire slice of Waybread_.

Bluebell closes her eyes with a satisfied sigh. “Oh, this is wonderful, exactly what I needed. I–” She opens her eyes with startled confusion. “I’m no longer hungry.”

She just ate _an entire slice of Waybread_. Thorin is incapable of comprehending how that is even physically possible.

“Yes, this should be enough to tide you through the worst of it,” Tharkûn says, making Thorin turn incredulous eyes towards him. Tide her through _the worst of it?_ This should be enough to keep her fed for an entire month at the least!

“Hobbits are remarkably fast healers,” the Wizard for some reason says in response to his look. “That healing, however, requires a great deal of sustenance.”

“Wait, that’s Waybread?” Kili realizes, before he stares at Bluebell with the same stunned disbelief that Thorin is feeling. “You ate an entire slice of _Waybread?_ ” His sister-son actually sounds impressed. Thorin might’ve been as well had he not still been stuck on _the loss of an entire slice of Waybread_.

“These are Lembas?” Bluebell returns with astonishment, before gaining a delighted smile. “Truly? I have wished to try one for ages! They say just one bite is enough to last an Elf for an entire week, you know.”

And it’s enough to last a Dwarf for three days. Before now, Thorin had assumed it would last a Hobbit at least a full day. Clearly, this assumption was wrong in the most horrifying of ways.

“And how many bites did you just take?” Fili asks as though there is amusement to be found in the loss of an entire slice of Waybread.

“I was _very_ hungry,” Bluebell answers as though this is a valid reason for eating an entire slice of Waybread.

“Will you hurry up and pass the food?” Bombur actually snaps, the action so uncharacteristic it pulls Thorin out of his shock. When Tharkûn moves to hand another slice to Bombur, Thorin clasps Bombur’s arm before he can take it and gives the Dwarf a warning glare.

“One _small_ piece, no more,” he orders. Bombur’s cowering doesn’t fool him in the slightest, and he continues to watch with narrowed eyes as Bombur takes hold of the Waybread.

Meticulous as ever, Bombur breaks off a piece that stretches the definition of “small” to the absolute limit. Thorin supposes that’s the best he can hope from Bombur.

Bifur snatches the Waybread from his cousin’s hands, and Thorin keeps careful watch to ensure nothing even remotely similar to _the loss of an entire slice of Waybread_ happens again.

“What’s it taste like?” Bofur asks his brother, curious.

“Sweet, tender, and surprisingly flaky,” Bombur answers in a thoughtful voice. “There's a number of things I’ve never tasted before, but the base is some type of corn, mixed with butter, brown sugar, heavy cream, a little vanilla, honey, and a hint of salt. Holds a fair touch of cinnamon as well.”

Bluebell lets out a sound of longing. “I shouldn’t have eaten it so quickly. Had I know it was Lembas, I would’ve savored the taste instead. I don’t suppose I could have another bite?”

Thorin turns his gaze away from where Gloin has broken off a piece to give her a look as unimpressed as that question deserves. Bluebell lets out a soft sigh, her uninjured shoulder slumping with disappointment. “Didn’t think so.”

“This is fantastic!” Bofur exclaims, drawing his attention back to the Waybread being passed around. “Feels like I just finished an entire feast!”

Those who’ve already eaten offer various forms of agreement, marveling at the sating of their appetite. After the last of his Company have eaten, Thorin breaks off a piece as well.

The instant he swallows it down, the hunger that had been nagging in the background fades away, his appetite sated and a rush of energy revitalizing him. Thorin returns the remainder of the Waybread to Tharkûn for safekeeping. The Wizard held on to these throughout the chaos of being chased by both the Goblins and Azog, and somehow even managed to keep them whole. There truly is no safer place to store them than on his person.

With the issue of sustenance out of the way, Thorin orders Oin to examine them all.

Unexpectedly, Oin insists he be examined first. When Thorin tries to refuse, his entire Company bursts into protestations, demanding he let Oin take care of him first. Even worse, all refuse to let Oin anywhere near them until he after he finishes examining Thorin. Including Balin and Dwalin, the traitors.

Faced with unreasonable stubbornness such as this, Thorin has no choice but to give in to their demands. Though he does manage to convince Oin to examine himself first, arguing that it would be the height of foolishness for their healer to examine them all only to discover at the end that he is the most wounded of all.

Oin is mostly alright. The one true injury he has are bruised ribs, all others are relatively minor, requiring not even a bandage.

Thorin allows Oin to examine him next.

The damage is not as bad as he had feared. Aside from various irrelevant cuts and bruises, his shoulder is badly sprained and has already swollen to debilitating levels. Thorin knows the swelling will only get worse before it starts getting better. The wound to his thigh is deeper than expected and came dangerously close to nicking an artery, but it requires nothing more than stitches. Both Ori and Fili still have a fair amount of needles and thread on their person, so those stitches are easily arranged. Though for tonight, Thorin, as well as any other who needs stitches, will have to settle for a bandage. Their wounds need to be thoroughly cleaned before being stitched closed, and that requires water they do not have.

Balin tears of a piece of his coat to use as a bandage before Thorin can stop him. Really, his own coat would have sufficed for that. Though given that it is obvious some of the others will require bandages as well, Thorin supposes that Balin’s decision is sound. While Thorin wishes he could use his own coat to create the necessary amount of bandages, the article of clothing would be ruined if he is to provide for them all. It is better to have various others sacrifice small pieces of their own clothing instead. No matter how much he wishes they didn’t need to.

The worst injury is the one to his chest. Azog’s pet Warg bit him with enough force to not only bruise his ribs, but to fracture one of them as well. The bruising, while painful, will not take too much time to fade, relatively speaking. The fracture, on the other hand, will compromise his condition for far too long. Still, Thorin had feared a broken rib, so having it “merely” fractured is good news in comparison.

Aside from Bluebell, the others are far less inured than himself. While all have various degrees of sprains and bruises, there are no broken bones as he had feared. Even Nori’s limp is relatively minor. There are a few cuts that need stitches, but nothing that cannot wait till morning. Bluebell, though...

Her arm is broken, and most worrying of all, she has a large bump to her head. Though both she and Tharkûn claim that is not an injury as severe as it would be to a Dwarf by far, or even as severe as it would be for Men. Thorin truly hopes they are not exaggerating about that.

Underneath her clothes, her skin is a mottled patchwork of black and blue that puts even his own to shame.

Thorin knows his staring is making her uncomfortable, but he cannot help it. He would never call her weak, she has more than proven that she is not. But compared to his people, she is so very fragile. A fact that has never been more clear than now.

Fili rearranges some of his daggers so he can offer two sheathes for Oin to set her arm with, and Thorin cuts off a piece of his cloak to make a sling for her. Which results in a harsh scolding from Oin for what he considers to be a too strenuous activity for his shoulder. Thorin resists the urge to roll his eyes. He knows Oin’s scolding is motivated by professional worry, but that doesn’t make him any less annoyed at the implication that he doesn’t know his own limits.

When they have done all they can to ease their injuries, they settle down to sleep. And Thorin is met with another wall of unreasonable stubbornness when he attempts to take first watch. Dwalin offers to take it in his stead, prompting various others to offer the same, but Thorin will not allow any in his Company to exert themselves more than they already have. They need to rest. So does he, Thorin is well aware of that, despite what his Company seems to think. But even while on this isolated outcropping, they need someone to stand guard.

“Then I shall do so. I will keep watch until the breaking of dawn,” Tharkûn declares. Thorin prepares to argue with the rock headed Wizard, but Tharkûn continues speaking before he can. “I am a Wizard, Thorin. I require neither sleep nor sustenance in the way that other people do.”

Thorin scowls as he is forced to admit that the Wizard makes a fair point. Both eating and sleeping seem to be done more by preference than necessity.

Most importantly, the Wizard is showing the same aggravating determination as he did when he wished for them to go frolic with Elves. Thorin knows he stands no chance of convincing Tharkûn to change his mind.

“...Very well,” he allows with great reluctance.

With the watch arranged, they settle down to sleep. Given their location and the lack of material to make a fire, they huddle together for warmth. Blubell, the most affected by the cold, is herded into the center of the group without any prompting from him. Then Thorin is pulled into the center as well, despite his protestations and orders for them to desist.

How is he supposed to protect them when he is trapped in the middle?

“Right now, you aren’t in a state to protect anybody. I could take you down with just one hit,” Dwalin states as a matter of fact, and Thorin gives him a fierce glare. His condition might be compromised, but he is far from useless.

“The thing we have to worry about the most is being attacked by predatory birds. Having you in the middle means you can prevent those around you from being plucked into the sky without warning,” Balin patronizes with a smile. While Thorin knows the argument is made to placate him, this does not make Balin’s words any less true. Given their location, predatory birds truly are what they have to worry about the most, and some of the specimens found in the Mountains are large enough to carry them away with ease.

Thorin is grateful beyond words to the Eagles for saving his Company, he truly is. But was it too much to ask to be put on the ground instead of this high rock?

With a scowl, Thorin accedes to the demands of his Company and settles down next to Bluebell.

He does not believe he’ll be able to sleep, not in their current state of vulnerability. But the exertion of the day proves to be greater than expected.

Thorin falls asleep the moment he closes his eyes.

* * *

 

As expected, most of the next day is spent climbing down. Even with the care taken because of their injuries, there are several moments of heart stopping terror where one of his Company nearly falls to their death. Fortunately, all make it down in one piece. In no small part thanks to Tharkûn, who uses Magic before they start climbing down to soothe their injuries and numb their pain.

They manage to find water before evening falls, and spend the remainder of the day making improvised versions of the necessities. Waterskins, bags to carry edible plants and small game in, some more bandages, and a few other things besides. Given that they do not have the time to gather enough food in addition to all the other things they must do, Thorin also allows his Company to take another small bite of Waybread, the exertion of the day meaning all had grown hungry again. Including Bluebell.

Apparently, the _entire slice of Waybread_ she ate was only meant to bring down her appetite to “normal” levels. Without it, she claims she would’ve been devouring everything within sight. In her own words, _an injured Hobbit is a hungry Hobbit_.

Thorin will never ever be able to understand how a people so small can eat so much.

They sleep in the next day, a necessity caused by the exertion of climbing down. After that, they resume traveling in earnest.

It turns out that Tharkûn was not exaggerating when he claimed that Hobbits are fast healers. Both the bump to Bluebell’s head and her bruises fade with startling speed, and she regains the use of her arm a little more with each passing day. It doesn’t take long before she no longer requires a sling, and soon her condition is the best of them all. Thorin is glad for that.

What he isn’t glad about, is his own condition. One which improves far too slowly even with the Wizard’s aid.

Tharkûn cannot heal them, not truly. But he soothes their pain and encourages their recovery as much he can. Thorin is grateful to him. Their injures mean they still move far too slowly, but Tharkûn’s aid minimizes their impact. And while his Company is still injured, all are once more capable of defending themselves at near full strength. Aside from himself, to his great frustration.

But the fact remains that they are moving too slowly. At this rate, Azog will catch up to them before they even reach the Mirkwood.

The knowledge is enough to put him in an even worse mood than their injuries alone would cause. He and his people are wounded and they are being hunted by Azog the Defiler. This is a literal night terror come to life.

Thorin is aware that he is in an exceptionally foul mood. While he does his best not to take it out on the others, he knows he does not always succeed. Keeping his temper under control is made even more difficult by the need to push themselves as much as their condition allows, a delicate balance of going as fast they can, but not so fast as to prevent their injuries from mending.

He is by far the only one affected by their situation. All are tense and snappish, friction growing higher with every day that passes. Thorin is expecting things to reach a breaking point soon.

He is not expecting Bluebell to be the first to break.

“No, you will not be setting up traps!” she yells at him without warning after Oin has finished changing the bandage to his thigh. Thorin, after recovering from his surprise, gives her an unimpressed look. While he understands that all are stressed, that outburst was completely uncalled for.

“Don’t give me that look,” she huffs, placing her hands on her hips and lifting her chin with defiance. “You’ve been running yourself ragged, ignoring the fact that you are gravely injured, and it is most unhealthy.”

Thorin is not _running himself ragged_. He knows exactly how far these injuries allow him to push himself before it starts becoming detrimental to his health, and he is taking care to stay within those limitations. Despite the great temptation to push himself beyond them.

“I’m fine,” he tells her, attempting and failing to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

“Stop saying that!” she yells, hands flying through the air with frustration. “You aren’t fine, none of us are, but you least of all, which means you should be resting the most, except you aren’t, you are constantly working and working and _working_. It isn’t healthy! You need to relax.”

Relax?

“We are being hunted by Azog the Defiler,” he snaps back, his own temper flaring at her foolish behavior. “We do not have the luxury of _relaxing_.”

“It’s not a luxury, it’s a necessity!” she returns with even greater frustration than before. “People go mad when they don’t stop working, they become careless, they make mistakes, and that, Master Oakenshield, that is something we cannot afford, and as our leader it is your duty to make sure we relax, and you do that by setting a good example and _stop working_.”

Thorin scowls. He’ll not deny the truth of her words, for it’s true that working without stop will lead to foolish mistakes. However, they are far from reaching that point.

Thorin knows _exactly_ how far his people can be pushed before it becomes too much.

“We are far from overworked,” he counters, and ignores the noise of pure aggravation she lets out in response. “Right now, relaxation is not only unnecessary, it puts our safety at even greater risk than our injuries already do.”

Really, he expected better of her. While he knows Hobbits value comfort above all else, he thought her sensible enough to realize that this is not the right time for it. It is, in fact, as far removed from being the right time as it is possible to be.

“ _One_ evening,” she snaps. “Just one single evening of relaxation! That is not an unreasonable thing to ask!”

It absolutely is. They are wounded and Azog the Defiler is hunting them. Even ignoring the time constraint they are under, they cannot afford to waste even a single moment. Their very survival depends on it.

“You are acting like a fool,” he condemns, aggravated by her refusal to see reason.

“And you are acting like an idiot!” she yells back, hands flying through the air. Thorin gives her a warning glare while attempting to keep hold of his temper. He’ll listen to her opinion, but he’ll not stand to be insulted when he is in the right.

Bluebell throws up her hands in exasperation, before she winces as the sharp movement puts too much stress on her injured arm. And she has the nerve to accuse him of pushing himself beyond his limits.

Bluebell shakes off the pain and stomps towards Ori, snatching Gloin’s coat out of his hands.

“Hey!” Ori protests, the first thing said by one of the others since the argument began.

Bluebell ignores him, marching back to Thorin and pushing the cloak against his chest with enough force to make him grimace, the pressure making the constant background pain flare up. Bluebell shows a brief flicker of regret for her action, but blind stubbornness soon regains the upper hand.

“If you are so determined to keep working, then fix Gloin’s cloak. You can be productive _without_ running around like an idiot.”

Thorin debates on how to respond. Even ignoring the insult, he does not appreciate being told what to do. At all. Especially when it is out of some misguided notion that he is overworking himself.

On the other hand, he has no desire to continue this argument. That would accomplish nothing but time being wasted, given Bluebell’s refusal to listen to reason.

“...The traps still need to be set,” he compromises. Bluebell lets out a noise of pure frustration, but before she can refuse this incredibly reasonable offer, Kili interferes.

“We can do that,” his sister-son says while walking towards Ori, making it clear who he is referring to. When Bluebell turns narrowed eyes towards him, Kili gives her a cheerful smile. “Don’t worry, we like setting traps.”

“We do?” Ori reveals the falsehood with his confused question. Kili kicks him without moving his smile away Bluebell. “Oh!” Ori realizes, before he gets to his feet while nodding with enthusiasm. “Yes, we do like setting traps.”

“See?” Kili aims at Bluebell. Who replies with what is by her standards a deeply unimpressed look. “I’ll make sure we have fun,” Kili adds as a compromise.

Bluebell continues giving him an unimpressed look a moment longer, before she lets out a huff, reluctantly agreeing to Kili’s proposal.

“As long as you have fun,” she tells his sister-son, before she returns her gaze to him and raises a pointed brow. “Is this solution satisfactory for you, Master Oakenshield?”

Thorin rolls his eyes at the passive aggressive challenge, but he does nod his agreement. “It will suffice.”

“How gracious of you,” she returns in an almost scathing voice, but there’s a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. The sight causes an involuntary flicker of amusement, despite his continued annoyance at her behavior as well.

Hobbits.

Bluebell’s smile drops when Tharkûn chuckles, and she whirls on the Wizard with her previous aggravation back in full force.

“And you,” she snaps with a fierceness that visibly startles the Wizard. “You will sit down, smoke Old Toby, and you will _relax_.”

Tharkûn actually sputters, caught off guard in a way that makes Thorin’s faint bemusement grow. “My dear, I assure you, I’m quite alri–”

“Sit. Down.”

Tharkûn sits down. Thorin will not deny the satisfaction he feels at seeing the Wizard ordered around so easily. It makes for a nice change from his usual aggravating obstinance.

Bluebell looks at at Tharkûn with a ridiculous amount of disappointment. “I expected better of you, Gandalf,” she says as though the Wizard is but a small child and not a being as old as the Earth itself. Even more incongruous, Tharkûn looks almost sheepish in return. “You’ve been working even harder than Master Oakenshield, and have been doing so without stop as well.”

“Yes, but I am not injured,” Tharkûn points out, before subsiding as Bluebell gives him her version of a glare.

“You’ve been healing all fourteen of us every single day, don’t pretend that isn’t wearing on you. So this evening you will sit down, you will smoke Old Toby, and you will _relax_.”

“Well, if you insist,” Tharkûn says with a smile that is equal parts amused and fond, before he takes out his pipe with the clear intention to follow out her orders. Thorin resists the urge to tell the Wizard to heal them instead. While he disagrees with Bluebell’s notion that the Wizard is overexerting himself, he’ll not deny that Tharkûn has been working the hardest of them all, doing as much he can to spare the others. Having him not heal them for one evening will not harm them. Neither will his lack of participation in the various tasks that need to be done. As long as the others fulfill their duties, that is.

Bluebell gives the Wizard a pleased nod, before she turns back to face him and narrows her eyes in warning. “The same goes for you, Master Oakenshield. Sit down and sew.”

Thorin raises an unimpressed brow at her attempt to order him around, but given that he has no desire to restart their argument, he complies with her demand.

Bluebell smiles at him with such satisfaction he can’t help another flicker of bemusement. Then she turns to face the rest of his Company, all who are still watching the proceedings with fascination. “This applies to all of you. You’re all going to have fun.”

“While completing your duties,” Thorin adds in a firm voice, and gives Bluebell a warning glare when she whirls on him with the clear intention to argue about this. He’ll allow her insistence that they “have fun”, but he’ll not allow it at the cost of efficiency.

His warning makes her presses her lips together with annoyance, but she lets out a huff, reluctantly conceding to his decision. Good.

“What about you?” Fili asks with mock innocence. Bluebell’s annoyance is replaced by confusion, and she turns to give his sister-son a puzzled look.

“What about me?”

“What are you going to do to have fun? It’s important to set a good example, after all,” Fili throws her own words back at her, making Thorin’s lips twitch with involuntary humor.

Bluebell lifts her nose into the air so she can give his sister-son a haughty look, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at her lips as well, involuntarily amused in the same way that Thorin is.

“I am going to cook a delicious dinner together with Bombur. And I will hopefully do so while accompanied by a lovely song,” she aims at Bofur, her smile breaking through in full.

“That can definitely be arranged,” Bofur returns with a grin, and promptly launches into song. One that describes a night of passion between two lovers in explicit detail. Dori and Nori join in the lyrics without hesitation, while the rest lets out various forms of laughter at Bluebell’s reaction, who lets out a startled squeak and gains an expression of utter mortification, so great it borders on horror. Her cheeks flush brightly with embarrassment, and she brings up her hands to cover her face, before her shoulders starts shaking as she dissolves into helpless laughter.

Thorin feels some of his tension fade away as he listens to the bright sounds. They cannot afford to relax, not truly. But they can still find enjoyment while fulfilling their duties.

Bluebell joins Bombur in where he had started preparing dinner, while Kili sling an arm around Ori and they leave to go set up the traps. Dwalin and Gloin follow after them to gather kindle, while Balin and Fili settle down to make some salves as per Oin’s instructions. Oin is in the process of changing Nori’s bandages, who is still singing along. As are Bofur and Dori, who resume preparing the edible plants gathered today into more manageable rations. Bifur taps his feet along as washes the dirty bandages. Tharkûn leans back against the tree and takes a deep drag from his pipe, looking more content than Thorin has seen him since they left Rivendell. Thorin himself sits down and continues fixing the tear Ori had already been in the process of mending.

Bluebell, despite the embarrassed flush that refuses to fade, looks around the merry atmosphere with satisfaction, before she meets his gaze and raises a pointed brow. Thorin feels a wry expression grow and concedes the point with a nod. Her insistence they relax was not foolish after all.

Bluebell gives a bright smile in return, before she returns her attention to cooking.

Thorin continues to watch his Company make merry, their happiness soothing something deep inside of him. He knows the moment will not last, they truly cannot afford to take things easy. But they can afford to be happy. Despite all else, they can still afford that.

For now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I present, a missing scene between the first and second movie. One has to wonder how they managed to get off that rock the Eagles left them on, after all.


	12. Chapter 12

Thorin has almost drawn Orcrist before he realizes where he is.

His sister-sons and the others are asleep. The Wizard is keeping watch. Azog is not here.

Thorin lets out a harsh breath and accounts for his entire Company again as he attempts to erase the horrors clinging to his mind. Azog is not here.

Yet.

Failing to erase the images haunting him, Thorin gets to his feet. He grimaces as his ribs protest against the movement, but otherwise ignores the pain. After verifying that the fire is still going strong, he makes his way to where the Wizard is keeping watch and takes a seat next to him. The wisest course of action would be to resume resting instead, but Thorin knows he’ll not be able to sleep again this eve.

Not after that night terror.

Tharkûn does not react to his presence beyond giving him a compassionate glance. Thorin is grateful for that.

He looks at his Company. Listens to them breathe and watches the rise and fall of their chests. Takes solace in the fact that all of them are still alive.

For now.

Thorin allows himself a worn out sigh. The night terror had not been as bad as some, but it left him shaken and unsettled still. Even so, he supposes he should be grateful. Given they are being hunted by Azog the Defiler, it is impossible to avoid the night terrors. But he is having far less than expected. Perhaps this is thanks to the Wizard’s Magic.

Perhaps it is because part of him still doesn’t truly believe that Azog yet lives. Doesn’t want to believe. No matter how childish that sentiment is.

When he shifts to a better position to keep watch, the dull throbbing of his ribs grows worse. Thorin does not react to the minor increase in pain, but Tharkûn lifts a hand with clear intention nonetheless. Thorin inclines his head, accepting the offer. Given that he’ll have no further rest this eve, every bit of compensation for the lack of sleep is welcome.

Tharkûn lays his hand on his shoulder and breathes out a familiar spell, the words soft yet resonant with the touch of Magic. Thorin feels some of his tension fade away as soothing warmth infuses his body, his various aches fading to near nonexistence.

“My thanks,” he murmurs, taking care not to wake the others. Tharkûn accepts his gratitude with a faint smile and lets go of his shoulder. There is a sense of tiredness to the Wizard, the aura of Power less noticeable than usual. But it is not so diminished as to cause true concern. That would require a far greater amount of Magic than healing a mere fourteen takes.

After his people began the long journey to the Blue Mountains, after they had been on the road long enough for their medicine to run out and for starvation to have sunk its claws deep into them all, the Wizard had appeared. He gave no warning, simply showed up in the middle of camp as though he had always been there.

And he healed them. The youngest first, the few children not left behind at the Iron Hills and the babes they could not prevent from being born on the road. He soothed their illness and encouraged their health as much as he could. Then he healed those on the verge of succumbing to sickness and infection, the ones they had already given up on as lost. He offered relief from the pain, gave them a fighting chance none had dared to hope was still possible.

He healed them all, from youngest to oldest, from those on the brink of death to those suffering the barest of coughs. He healed without rest, without food, without stop, healed until all color had been leached from him, until the aura of Power had been all but gone. He healed until every single one of them had been given aid.

Then he collapsed and did not wake for thirty days. When he regained consciousness, Tharkûn resumed healing them as though he had not just spend an entire month unconscious. He did not exert himself to the point of collapse once more, but he still aided all who needed it. All who would not survive without him.

Tharkûn did not manage to save all. Some still succumbed to illness or injury, despite his best efforts. But so many pulled through instead. So many lived when they would not have otherwise.

Tharkûn had not stayed. He could not, his very nature prevented it. But he returned six times before they reached the Blue Mountains. Each time he did, he healed them all.

It is a debt they can never repay. Of the few that offered aid when they needed it the most, Tharkûn’s gift outweighed all. He saved more of his people than all others combined.

He did not aid them during the Battle of Azanulbizar.

“Why were you not present at the Battle?” The question slips out without his consent. Thorin only realizes how out of context the words must seem after he has already spoken them.

Except Tharkûn closes his eyes and lets out a sigh, soft yet filled with regret. Tired in a way that has nothing to do with his physical state.

The Wizard knows what Battle he is referring to.

“Because I am a Wizard,” Tharkûn answers, body bowed down under the weight of Ages in a way he so rarely allows himself to show. “I am always exactly where I need to be.”

And he did not need to be with them during the Battle of Azanulbizar. Did not need to offer aid. Would not have been able to change the outcome even if he had stayed.

No matter how much Tharkûn wishes he could have.

Part of Thorin resents the Wizard for leaving them to their fate. For failing to go against his nature. Most of him doesn’t.

Not when it was their own nature that led to their doom.

After they arrived at the Blue Mountains and they _finally_ managed to gather enough of the barest essentials for all, Tharkûn ceased his visitations. In the decades that followed, he returned but three more times.

One of those times was when his grandfather made the decision to try to reclaim Moira.

Tharkûn had shown up without warning as always, and he argued against his grandfather’s plan. Politely at first, followed with increasing fervor and desperation. He argued, pleaded and begged. He even called upon the debt they owe him, the only time the Wizard has ever acknowledged it even exists.

It had all been in vain. Thror refused to listen, would not be swayed from his decision no matter what.

It was then Thorin could no longer deny that his grandfather was lost to madness once more. Not when Thror refused to even attempt to repay the debt they owe Tharkûn.

The Wizard had not merely attempted to sway his grandfather. He argued with his father, with Thorin himself and both his siblings. He begged them to go against Thror’s decision.

They could not. They could argue with him, and they had done so, Dis most and fiercest of all. But they could not abandon him. Perhaps they could have had this been about nothing but love and blood. But it wasn’t.

Thror was their King. Mad with lust for gold, but still their King. They could sooner cut off their hands than abandon him. As Tharkûn discovered when he attempted to sway their people as well. When he tried to make them refuse their King’s command.

He failed. They followed their King to battle. Followed him to slaughter.

Part of Thorin hates himself for that. Hates even more that, if given the choice, he would make the same decision all over again. He would always follow his King no matter what.

They all would.

Another part of him, one he ignores as best he can at all times, hates his grandfather. Hates him for his weakness, for succumbing to madness again after they had dared to hope he was free of it for good.

“I am sorry, Thorin.” Tharkûn’s apology, barely audible yet heartfelt, makes him close his eyes, just for a moment.

“So am I.” Sorry that his grandfather wasn’t strong enough, sorry for the senseless slaughter of their people it led to. Sorry that his grandfather failed their people so badly. That their King forced them to meet their death.

Sorry they weren’t strong enough to go against their nature, either.

It is why Thorin did not order his people to follow him on this quest. He asked, but he did not command. He holds no authority over the other Families without the Arkenstone, but he does over his own people. Despite failing them time and time again, despite having no Kingdom to call their own, he is still their King. Had he called upon them, they would have come. As they came when his grandfather called upon them.

He is not his grandfather.

“Do you truly believe we stand a chance of reclaiming the Arkenstone?” It is another question that escapes him without his consent. A question that reveals just how impossible he believes this quest to be.

It is a weakness he could never reveal to the others. But he can to Tharkûn.

The Wizard does not rely on him as the others do. He does not need him to lead. Does not need him to be strong.

Not in this.

“I do.” Tharkûn’s expression is as certain as his answer, holding not a single trace of doubt. Thorin wishes he could feel the same confidence.

“How can you be so certain?” he returns, the words coming out more wistful than intended.

Tharkûn smiles, faint but true. “I have a good feeling about this quest,” the Wizard replies unhelpfully. Thorin feels wry exasperation grow. The worst part is that he knows Tharkûn is being truthful. Having “a good feeling” is all the reason he needs to believe they will succeed.

Wizards.

“You should rest, Gandalf. I will keep watch.” Given he’ll not be able to sleep again, it is pointless for the Wizard to remain awake as well. Not to mention that Tharkûn deserves the additional rest. The Wizard has been taking second watch ever since he saved them, to allow the rest of them as much interrupted sleep as is possible.

“Thorin, I assure you, I am resting more than enough to compensate for the amount of energy I am expanding,” Tharkûn refuses the offer, before glancing at Bluebell with warm bemusement. “Despite what some belief.”

Thorin does not insult Tharkûn by repeating his offer. If the Wizard claims he is getting enough rest, Thorin will take him at his word. Unlike Bluebell.

At least she now restrains herself to the occasional disapproving frown since their "evening of relaxation".

Companionable silence falls. While Thorin’s mind still tries to wander to the past, he is able to prevent himself from drowning in regret by dividing his attention between keeping watch and focusing on the route they are taking.

The Eagles had left them in a position far more to the North than Thorin had been planning on going. Even ignoring the time constraint they are under, they cannot afford to return South to take the Old Forest Route. Not with Azog hunting them. Instead, they are moving further North, to take the Elven Path instead.

Thorin cannot describe how much he _loathes_ the need to take that path, how he despises the need to cross into Thranduil’s lands with an all consuming vengeance. But they have no choice. Not if they are to reach Erebor in time.

Not if they are to stand even the slightest chance of outrunning Azog.

As though in response to his thoughts, Warg howls pierce the air.

“Wake up,” he commands loud enough to be heard by all but not so loud as to reveal their location, lunging to his feet and racing towards Oin, the nearest of those who’d yet to wake. The howls had woken Dwalin, Balin and Bifur, and Fili, Kili and Nori have snapped awake at his raised voice but the others are still asleep, so Thorin repeats his order for them to “ _Wake up.”_

“Wha–” Oin’s confused grumble ends in a startled grunt as Thorin yanks him to his feet, taking care not to strain either of their injuries. Dwalin, Kili and Nori are waking the others, while Balin, Fili, Bifur and Tharkûn are breaking up camp and gathering their supplies with quick efficiency. The howls had been faint, distant and far off, but the very fact they carried far enough to be heard means they have a day at worst, two at best, before Azog catches up to them.

Thorin supposes it no longer matters that they are heading towards Thranduil’s lands. They’ll not manage to reach the borders anyway.

Not when they are being hunted by Azog the Defiler.

* * *

 

They spend the remainder of the night and most of the next day moving as fast they can. Trice, Thorin is on the verge of ordering his Company to halt, spotting locations defensible enough that they might stand at least a chance of winning the upcoming battle. Thrice, he orders them to continue onwards instead. Yes, the locations are defensible, but even with that advantage, he knows they stand no chance of victory without suffering enormous loss. He knows he will be forced to watch Azog slaughter his kin once more.

Were they being hunted by any but Azog the Defiler, Thorin would’ve been able to make the right decision and prepare a suitable location for the upcoming battle. But they are being hunted by Azog the Defiler, and that changes everything. That makes it impossible to stop moving. Impossible to stop fleeing.

Thorin is aware of how foolish this decision is, yet he cannot bring himself to stop no matter how hard he tries. He wishes that one of the others will speak up, point out the foolishness of his behavior, convince him to stop rushing to the certain death of all.

None speak up. Not even Tharkûn.

Of course the one time Thorin wishes the Wizard would argue with him, he refuses to do so.

They halt before the sun sets and try to get at least a minimum amount of sleep. Thorin fails, and he is by far the only one. But a few do manage to catch some sleep, and even those that do not still manage to regain some of their strength.

When night falls, they continue moving. Thorin prays they’ll make it to dawn. The sun will not prevent Azog from hunting them, but the light of day will weaken him. If they can delay the battle till then, some of them might stand a chance of survival.

Of course, this is ignoring the fact that Azog will never grant them the advantage of attacking during daylight.

Dawn breaks, but it offers no relief. Given how near the last Warg howls sounded, they’ll be run down by dusk. A little after nightfall if they push themselves to the absolute limit, but that will leave them in a state of utter exhaustion, something they cannot afford.

When Balin points out another suitable location, Thorin forces himself to call his Company to a halt. He wants to keep moving, oh, how he wants to keep running. But given how near Azog is, that is a decision he cannot afford to make.

Thorin will _not_ allow himself to fail his Company because of his own cowardice. No matter how much every part of him keeps screaming at him to flee.

If they remain here, they’ll have enough time to prepare this site to offer the greatest possible advantage, and even have enough time to catch up on their sleep. While Thorin does not put it past Azog to attempt to starve them out, they have enough Waybread left to last them another three weeks at the least, and there is a small spring present, meaning Azog cannot poison their water supply. They’ll not be weakened should the vile thing chose to use that tactic.

All of which he tells his Company after ordering to halt. Both to prepare them for what is to come and in an attempt to silence the blind terror still screaming at him to _keep running_. While he doesn’t manage to erase the urge, he does manage to lessen it.

This, of course, is when the Wizard decides to argue with him.

“We should press on,” Tharkûn insists, and Thorin ruthlessly suppresses the immediate urge to agree.

“This place offers the advantages of the high ground, cover, and a source of running water,” he counters. “We’ve no chance of finding another location as beneficial as this before night falls.” Really, Thorin expected better of the Wizard. Tharkûn knows this place offers the greatest chance of some of them surviving the upcoming battle, so why does his wish for them to press on instead?

Tharkûn hesitates, debating with himself on whether to reveal something or not. Thorin narrows his eyes at him. While he trusts Tharkûn to do all in his power to keep them alive, the Wizard also has the infuriating habit of keeping vital information to himself, no matter how grave the situation.

“What is it,” he demands in a harsh voice, making it clear he’ll not allow Tharkûn to avoid his question.

“...There is a house, not far from here, where we might take refuge.” The Wizard’s tentative answer makes him raise a derisive brow.

“Does this house belong to Elves?” That is the only reason he can think of for Tharkûn’s reluctance to share this piece of information. Which is not merely absurd, it’s insulting. Given the choice between Azog the Defiler and Elves, Thorin will always chose the Elves. Even if they are Thranduil’s Elves.

...Probably even if they are Thranduil’s Elves.

“No, it does not belong to Elves,” the Wizard has the nerve to say with pointed disapproval. Thorin gives him a warning glare, unable to believe that Tharkûn is criticizing “his blind prejudice” at a time like this.

“Then who does it belong to? Are they friend or foe?” he demands instead of wasting time arguing about the Wizard’s hypocritical self-righteousness.

“Neither,” Tharkûn replies without hesitation, foregoing the potential argument for the same reason Thorin did. The Wizard understands just how precious every passing moment is. “He will either help us, or he will kill us.”

Thorin grimaces. The way Thaekûn delivered those words makes it clear there is no middle road. They’ll either find aid, or they will meet their death. Under normal circumstances, that is a risk Thorin would never take.

These are not normal circumstances.

“...How far to this house?” he asks, needing more information before making a final decision.

“If we hurry, we can make it there before the sun sets.”

Thorin scowls. When the Wizard said the house was _not far from here_ , Thorin assumed he meant is was within half a day’s travel, not a full one. Or rather, a day and half, as made clear by Tharkûn’s insistence they hurry.

For a moment, Thorin wavers on whether to remain here or not. If he agrees to the Wizard’s suggestion, they’ll need to push themselves to the absolute limit, and that will leave them in a state of utter exhaustion, easy prey for either Azog or whoever the house belongs to. But if they stay, the odds of all dying are near certain. Yes, there is a slight chance that some might survive the battle, but most of his Company would die.

Fili and Kili would die.

Thorin decides to trust the Wizard instead. Tharkûn would not have suggested this if he did not believe they might find true aid there. Aid formidable enough to save them all from Azog.

The Wizard is offering them a true chance, no matter how small, that all might survive.

“Very well,” he agrees. Tharkûn replies with a look so self-satisfied Thorin almost changes his mind again. Fortunately, the Wizard wastes no further time and starts leading them to this mysterious house.

They redouble their pace, push themselves to the absolute limit in order to make it there before night falls.

Thorin cannot help but doubt the wisdom of his decision. If they do not manage to reach the house in time, there will no longer be even a glimmer of hope for survival. All will die by Azog’s hand.

Thorin prays his trust in the Wizard is not misplaced. He fears it is. Especially when Tharkûn refuses to reveal whose home they are supposed to take refuge in, avoiding the question in the most aggravating of ways. He only insists they will be safe there from Azog the Defiler.

Assuming their host, whoever they are, will not decide to kill them instead.

Any other time, Thorin would’ve refused to follow the Wizard’s lead unless he reveals who it is they are supposed to be taking refuge with. As it is, they cannot afford to waste even a single moment, so Thorin is forced to restrain himself to arguing with the Wizard while continuing to follow his lead.

Naturally, this means that Tharkûn keeps refusing to answer with his usual unyielding and absolutely _infuriating_ stubbornness.

_Wizards_.

They are, supposedly, near the house when the sun starts to set. Thorin continues to fear the howls of Wargs, nearer every time he hears them. The last time made it clear that Azog will catch up shortly after night falls. They must reach the house before then, they _must_.

To his overwhelming relief, the house is soon within sight, standing in the middle of a meadow and illuminated by the fading light in the most beautiful of ways. Thorin feels almost faint as a weight falls off his shoulders. They’re going to make it. They’ll reach the house before Azog the Defiler catches up to them.

They might survive this day after all.

Naturally, this is when a deafening roar shatters the air behind them, the sound unlike any a Warg can make. Thorin draws Orcrist while spinning around in time with everyone else and sees an _enormous_ bear staring them down from far too near a distance.

“Run!” Tharkûn’s fearful order makes him spin back around while ordering his company to _move_.

All except Bombur heed his command, and Thorin grabs the Dwarf as he passes by him, pulling him along until Bombur starts running on his own.

When Bombur does start moving under his own power, he moves like the wind, leaving all others behind. He even manages to overtake Tharkûn.

The small part of Thorin not busy keeping track of both his Company and the nearing threat, is deeply impressed by this unexpected display of superb sprinting.

Bombur races through the gates, while Tharkûn halts besides them to ensure all make it inside. Thorin takes the opportunity to turn his head and visually confirm what his ears are telling him. He ruthlessly suppresses the urge to panic as he sees in vivid detail just how fast the beast is gaining on them. It won’t catch them, he knows it won’t. They’ll be inside the house before it can reach them.

Or rather, he amends as he returns his gaze to his Company, they’ll be inside if one of the fools attempting to ram down the doors would have the basic sense to _lift the hatch_.

He pushes through the crowd and does just that, yelling at his Company to get inside. All are already scrambling to do so before he even finishes his order, and Thorin wastes no time in closing one of the doors, Gloin, Dori and Ori joining him while Balin, Dwalin, Fili and Bifur take care of the other one.

Right before they manage to shut the doors, the bear smashes into them, and it takes all of Thorin’s strength to hold his ground and keep the beast out, the others straining themselves just as hard. A muzzle and paw force their way through the gap, vicious teeth snapping at anything in reach and enormous claws reaching out to tear off flesh, making those not behind the cover of wood scramble back to avoid that fate.

Thorin uses every shred of power to try to close the door, the others doing the same, but it’s still not enough. The beast’s strength is overpowering theirs, slowly but surely forcing the doors back open.

Kili solves this problem by jabbing his sword at the beast’s muzzle, making it rear back to avoid being cut and allowing the rest of them to shut the doors. Nori and Bifur waste no time in sealing the entrance with a heavy bar.

Thorin keeps hold of Orcrist and watches the entrance with wary eyes as the beast lets out a vicious snarl. Strangely enough, it makes no attempt to break down the wood.

“What is that?” Ori asks the Wizard, which is an excellent question. Even ignoring the unnatural strength, that is not a normal bear. The shape of its teeth and the paw possessing an actual thumb made that more than clear.

“That is our host.” Tharkûn’s answer makes Thorin turn his head away from the entrance to stare at the Wizard with utter incredulity. That is their what. “His name is Beorn, and he’s a Skinchanger.”

Thorin briefly allows himself to close his eyes as he feels a headache break through. First intelligent Trolls, then Stone Giants, and now a Skinchanger?

Thorin vows that in the impossible event he should somehow survive this quest, he will _never_ agree to one of the Wizard’s mad schemes ever again.

Bluebell lets out a gasp that is part terrified but mostly awed. Of course she does. “A Skinchanger? I thought they were just stories!”

So did Thorin. But then, he thought the same of Stone Giants, and the Wizard proved him wrong about those as well.

“First Stone Giants and now a Skinchanger? What’s next, Tree Wraiths?” Nori mutters with tired disgust and and even more tired exasperation. Thorin understands completely.

“I’d prefer Rock Sprites myself. Always wondered what those look like,” Bofur replies much too cheerfully. His reactions are as incomprehensible as Bluebell’s when it comes to things like this.

“I thought Skinchangers looked like normal animals, not like, well, that,” Kili says with a nervous nod in the direction of what are now low growls instead of vicious snarls. The sounds remain just as threatening, though. All keep their weapons at the ready.

All side from Tharkûn.

“You thought wrong,” the Wizard says as though there is nothing unusual about encountering a Skinchanger. “Skinchangers are both animal and person, no matter what form they take. They are more than what they would be alone. Still, their form does influence the shape of their thoughts. In the case of Beorn, sometimes he’s a huge black Bear, and sometimes he’s a great strong Man. The Bear is unpredictable, but the Man can be reasoned with.”

Seeing as the Skinchanger is currently a Bear, this knowledge is not reassuring in the slightest.

“However, in either form, he is not overfond of Dwarves,” Tharkûn warns, and Thorin has to close his eyes again. Why, exactly, did the Wizard prefer to take refuge here instead of facing Azog?

Except that very question offers the answer. Almost anything is preferable to facing Azog the Defiler. Including taking refuge with a hostile Skinchanger.

“He’s leaving,” Ori states the obvious, but the confirmation is still welcome to hear.

“Get away from there,” Dori snaps while pulling Ori away from the doors, but Thorin is far more focused on the sounds of the Skinchanger moving further and further away. “It’s not natural, none of it. It’s obvious. He’s under some _dark spell_.”

If Thorin hadn't been occupied with inspecting their surrounding, he would have rolled his eyes at the theatrical declaration. One Dori should know to be false. All stories say Skinchangers are born, not created.

“Don’t be a fool,” Tharkûn retorts with actual derision, and Thorin briefly interrupt his inspection to give him a fierce glare. Yes, the reaction was overly dramatic, but Dori is both exhausted and worked up from the chase the Wizard himself thought necessary. Tharkûn has no right to insult him or anyone else. “He’s under no enchantment but his own.”

“Will he return to mount another attack?” Thorin demands, foregoing chewing out the Wizard in favor of gathering vital information. Information he will _not_ allow the Wizard to keep hidden again.

After finishing his inspection, he still gives the Wizard another fierce glare for his behavior towards Dori. Tharkûn receives the warning loud and clear, briefly closing his eyes in a way that reveals he is aware the insult was uncalled for. Good. Tharkûn might be exhausted as well, but that doesn’t give him the right to take his mood out on them.

“No,” Tharkûn answers the question with a certainty that eases some of his tension. “This is Beorn’s home. Even as a Bear, he won’t damage it, despite the intruders inside. As long as we– _Do not harm the animals_.”

Thorin rears back as Tharkûn’s presence is unleashed in full, impossible Power spreading out, terrifying in a way only a Wizard can be. All others react the same as him.

All aside from Nori, the focus of Tharkûn’s full Power. He freezes in place instead, hand lifted halfway through an attempt to swat a moth. A moth that is flying away from the Wizard’s Magic as fast it can.

“I cannot stress the importance of this enough,” Tharkûn continues in a normal manner, Power contained as quickly as it had been unleashed. “Under no circumstances are you to harm the animals. No matter what they are doing or how small they might be.”

While the others give various forms of agreement, Thorin examines the house more closely than his cursory inspection from before. More specifically, he searches for animals.

There are few in view, but Thorin spots telltale signs of various harmless wildlife having made their home here. Mostly mice and rabbits, but the floor is littered with bird and bat droppings as well. When he looks up at the roof, he spies a great many nests of both, hidden in the corners of the supports. Supports specifically designed to hold as many nests as is possible.

“Now then,” the Wizard says, drawing his attention back to him. “Get some sleep, all of you. We’ll be safe here tonight.”

“What of Azog?” Thorin counters, for while they might be safe from the Skinchanger in here, Azog the Defiler is another matter entirely. The Wizard claimed they would be safe here from that monster, but Thorin needs more specifics before he will even think of daring to sleep here. This house is far too easy a target. The only thing Azog has to do in order to drive them out is set a fire.

“Oh, we’re quite safe from him as well,” Tharkûn replies as though Azog the Defiler is nothing more than an afterthought. “Beorn would never allow Orcs to defile his home.”

Thorin scowls at the explanation that fails to offer even a shred of comfort. “You say that as though Azog the Defiler needs permission to live up to his name,” he retorts, not impressed by the Wizard’s reasoning.

“Thorin, trust me when I say that Azog will not be able to attack us here,” Tharkûn says as though that is all the explanation needed. Thorin is about to point out how inadequate those words are when Tharkûn continues speaking. “Beorn has history with Azog the Defiler. He would die before allowing Orcs, and Azog in particular, anywhere near his home.”

Thorin scowls, but reluctantly decides to let the matter rest. While he doesn’t trust the Skinchanger to be able to defeat Azog, he does acknowledge that Azog won’t be able to pass him without suffering enormous casualties. The fact eight Dwarves working together had trouble standing up to the Skinchanger’s strength makes this more than clear. If Azog kills their host and attacks them afterwards, he’ll be so weakened that they’ll stand a true chance of slaying him without losing more than a few. Not to mention that they’ll have adequate warning before he can reach them, given how loud the Skinchanger’s roars are.

Most important of all, if Azog does kill their host, he will refrain from attacking them, at least for tonight. He’ll not confront them when weakened to such degree.

Thorin tells his Company to go sleep. Given the situation, that truly is the wisest course of action.

Most immediately obey his order, exhausted after these past two days of intense exertion and far too little sleep. Bluebell wastes no time in turning a pile of straw into a comfortable nest, Dori and Nori doing the same, while the others aside from his sister-sons simply fall down the hay with no care beyond having something soft to sleep on. Oin, Ori, Bofur and Bombur fall asleep the moment they lay down the straw, and it takes but a few moments for Bluebell, Dori, Nori, Gloin and Bifur to join them.

Fili and Kili take up guarding positions on either side of the group. They attempt to keep watch, but the need to rest proves too great for them to resist, and they soon join the others in sleep. Thorin is glad for that. With Azog the Defiler hunting them, it is vital his sister-sons recover all their strength. It’s vital for all of them of course, but the others aren’t Azog’s main target. Fili and Kili are.

Tharkûn moves towards those sleeping and starts to heal them one by one, ensuring they’ll suffer no stiffness of joints or aching muscles in the morning. Dwalin and Balin join Thorin himself in a far more thorough inspection of their surroundings.

The doors are the only reliable way in or out, the lack of alternative exits making his hackles rise. While there are a fair amount of windows, they are too small to be able to leave through them, the windows designed to let in the light while keeping out the cold. True, their size will also prevent them from being ambushed, but having only one exit makes it far too easy to trap them.

Thorin inspects the walls and supports, and feels a little better as he spots a few flaws they can exploit to make alternative escape routes. Balin has discovered a number of them as well, and Dwalin is already moving some of the furniture so they’ll be able to exploit those flaws as fast as possible. Thorin joins Dwalin in moving the furniture, taking care not to wake the others.

After they’ve examined this place in full and done all they can to fortify their position, the three of them settle down near the others. Tharkûn heals Dwalin and Balin as well, before coming over to do the same for him. Thorin resists the irrational urge to tell the Wizard to save his strength for battle instead. Healing him will have no impact on Tharkûn’s ability to fight, and Thorin himself needs to be in the best shape possible to defend the others.

After healing him, Tharkûn settles down next to entrance, intending to stand guard for the entire night. Dwalin has already fallen asleep, but Balin is still awake, his eyes closed to better listen for nearing threats.

Thorin closes his eyes as well and focuses on the sounds coming from outside. Despite his own exhaustion, he does not fall asleep right away. But as time passes and Warg howls keep failing to sound, his tension slowly starts to ease. There is no doubt that Azog has caught up to them by now, so the fact that he is keeping silent means he is deliberately refraining from attacking. It means he is avoiding this place on purpose.

It seems the Wizard was right in claiming this to be a safe location after all.

The knowledge is enough for sleep to overtake him at last.


	13. Chapter 13

Thorin wakes with a start. For a moment, he doesn’t understand what woke him. Then he hears the sound of an axe hitting wood, the noise muted by the walls but not by much.

Tharkûn has changed position. The Wizard is still keeping watch, but he is now sitting opposite of the doors instead of next to them. While Tharkûn is attempting and failing to hide his nervousness, he is showing no signs of true alarm.

Thorin eases his grip on Orcrist as he realizes they are in no immediate danger. He does not release it until he has accounted for his entire Company.

All of them are present. None aside from himself and Balin are awake, and Balin is gripping his sword and looking around with faint disorientation, gathering his bearings as Thorin himself just did.

The axe hits wood again, and this time Dwalin frowns in a way that indicates he is waking as well.

Thorin gets to his feet and moves towards where the sounds are coming from, grabbing a stool along the way so he can reach the windows. When he looks outside, he sees that the wood is being chopped by an exceptionally tall... he cannot call the being a Man, though that is what he resembles the most. The Skinchanger, he supposes.

The Skinchanger is wielding the large axe with an ease that speaks of long familiarity, making it clear he’ll pose a grave threat in this form as well. Not that Thorin expected any different.

Thorin gets off the stool and moves towards the Wizard. Balin takes his place at the window, both to keep watch and to make his own assessment of the potential threat.

“Now what,” Thorin asks Tharkûn, coming to stand beside him.

“And good morning to you as well,” Tharkûn returns with a falsely cheerful smile, making him roll his eyes. This is not the time for the Wizard’s usual contrariness.

“Do we stay or do we leave?” he demands, ignoring the Wizard’s behavior in favor of deciding their next move.

“We stay,” Tharkûn replies without hesitation, easing some of his tension.

“You are certain the Skinchanger will help us?” he still asks, needing to hear the confirmation out loud.

Except Tharkûn hesitates. Wonderful.

“...If we play our cards right, he will,” the Wizard eventually replies. Thorin allows himself a tired sigh. Of course it was too much to ask for the Wizard to give him a straight answer.

“What will happen if he does not?” he returns, already knowing what the answer will be.

“He will kill us,” Tharkûn confirms.

“Why should we take that risk?” Thorin asks, genuinely curious as to the Wizard’s reasoning. Most of the time, Tharkûn offers sensible arguments for the course of action he wishes them to take. Most of the time.

“Aside from the fact that we cannot leave without his notice?” Tharkûn counters, which is an admittedly fair point. “We’re still being hunted by Orcs. While they will refrain from attacking us here, we are an easy target should we leave Beorn’s lands. We’ll never reach the Forest without his help.”

Thorin closes his eyes as he is forced to admit that Tharkûn’s reasoning is sound. Both leaving and staying offer the possibility of certain death, but staying also offers a slight chance that all might survive. Those are far better odds than leaving offers.

“What plan have you to convince him to help us?” he agrees to stay. The Wizard, of course, gains a far too self-satisfied smile in return. Yet the expression is fleeting, soon replaced by nervousness once more. Not comforting in the slightest.

“We will reveal ourselves in pairs, so as to not overcrowd him. And we will present our non-Dwarven member first.”

Thorin raises an unimpressed brow at the Wizard claiming his Company for his own, but he does nod his permission. Given that the Skinchanger is _not overfond of Dwarves_ , having Bluebell and Tharkûn reveal themselves first truly is the wisest course of action.

Having settled on a plan, Thorin returns to where Balin is keeping an eye on the Skinchanger. Dwalin has joined his brother by now and is absently redoing his braids.

“Want to wake the others?” Dwalin asks.

“No. Let them rest a little while longer. They’ll need all their strength if this is to end in battle,” he replies, before giving Dwalin a pointed look. “They might make foolish mistakes otherwise. Such as failing to realize that doors can be opened by lifting a latch.”

The jab causes Dwalin to give him a fierce glare, even as his ears redden with embarrassment. “The sun was in my eyes.”

Thorin lets out a derisive snort at that pathetic attempt of an excuse, even as he feels his lips twitch with involuntary humor at the predictable reaction. “The sun was to your back,” he points out without mercy. Dwalin’s scowl grows fiercer and his shoulders tighten with humiliation. Thorin feels not a shred of compassion. In fact, he still has trouble believing that Dwalin was moronic enough to miss something so blindingly obvious. The fact he was exhausted is no excuse for stupidity such as that.

On another note, the next time Dwalin attempts to make fun of him for something that happened in the past, Thorin will now always have a perfect retort at the ready.

When Balin chuckles, Dwalin turns his glare towards his brother. “I didn’t see you do any better,” he snaps, attempting to shift the blame.

“These old eyes aren’t what they used to be,” Balin counters without missing a beat, his tone revealing it to be nothing more than a jest to needle Dwalin. Balin is making no attempt to deny his own foolishness.

“Yet your eyes seem to have no trouble observing the Skinchanger,” Dwalin sneers, aggravated as always by his brother’s casual acceptance of his own stupidity. Unlike Balin, Dwalin has never been good at admitting when he has made a mistake. To anyone other than himself, at least.

“A fair point, brother. Perhaps you’d like to verify for yourself what my poor eyesight is telling me?” Balin quips with mock innocence.

“You just want me to do all the work so you can laze around,” Dwalin grumbles, but he still moves to take Balin’s place.

“Brother, I’m hurt. Is that truly what you think of me?” Balin laments while getting off the stool.

Thorin listens to their banter in silence, the familiar bickering easing some of his tension. A tension that eases further as the Skinchanger makes no move to enter his home, merely continues chopping wood. Thorin takes the opportunity to redo his own braids.

After a short while, the others start to wake. Bifur is first, snapping awake with a brisk curse, disorientated eyes darting around until he realizes where he is. The sharp exclamation is enough to rouse his sister-sons, and the following movements and rising conversation wake the others as well. Only Bluebell remains asleep.

It doesn’t take long for the others to join them, taking turns at the window so all can observe the Skinchanger. It takes even less time for an argument to start up on whether to remain or leave. Thorin will interfere should it become too heated, but for now, he merely listens. Perhaps one of the others will come up with a better course of action than the one Tharkûn suggested.

As the sun continues to rise, small wildlife start appearing from various nooks and crannies, and the air becomes filled with a significant number of bees. When one lands on Bluebell’s nose, the sensation is enough to wake her at last.

Thorin watches her look around their surroundings, first with confusion, then with dawning wonder, a delighted smile growing as she watches the bees fly around. She startles when she notices him watching her, before her smile comes back full force. Thorin signals her to come over and returns his gaze to the others when she moves to follow his command.

“–say we leg it. Slip out the back way,” Nori insists yet again, dead set against confronting the Skinchanger in any way. Unexpectedly, Dwalin yanks Nori close and gives him a harsh glare.

“I’m not running from anyone, beast or no.”

Thorin raises an unimpressed brow at the show of false bravado. Not that he would ever call Dwalin a coward, but seeing as all of them were running from the Skinchanger the previous evening, Dwalin’s words ring hollow. Also foolish. Seeking a fight when there is no need for one is pure stupidity. Most of the time, Dwalin is aware of this. Thorin supposes Dwalin is more annoyed by the ongoing argument than he thought he was if he is making claims such as this. Or perhaps he is more unsettled by the Skinchanger than he is willing to admit. Most likely a combination of both.

“There’s no point in arguing,” Tharkûn says before Nori can continue the argument, the Wizard’s own nervousness causing the words to come out far sharper than usual. Fortunately, Tharkûn moderates his tone before Thorin needs to order him to do so. “We cannot pass through the Wilderland without Beorn’s help. We’ll be hunted down before we even reach the Forest– ah, Bluebell, there you are,” Tharkûn finishes with relief as Bluebell joins them.

“Good morning, everyone,” Bluebell greets them with a smile.

“Yes, yes, good morning,” Tharkûn waves her greeting off with hypocritical impatience. “Now, this will require some delicate handling,” the Wizard continues with a warning look at them all. “The last person to have startled him was torn to shreds.”

Again, why exactly does the Wizard wish for them to stay here?

“I will go first, together with Bluebell.”

“Go with you? To where? Gandalf, what are you talking about?” Bluebell asks with confusion and rising concern. “And someone wishes to tear us to shreds? Are the Orcs here?”

“I am talking about introducing ourselves to our host,” Tharkûn replies, answering all her questions at once and making Bluebell’s eyes widen with shock. “Now, the rest of you, wait here and don’t come out until I give the signal.”

“Right, wait for the signal,” Bofur confirms without taking his eyes off the Skinchanger, most of the others offering their own agreement as well.

“No sudden moves or loud noises,” Tharkûn reminds them, attempting to sound firm but only managing to hit anxious. How comforting. “And don’t overcrowd him. Only come out in pairs.”

Thorin is genuinely debating on whether to put a stop to this “plan” or not. If they are _extremely_ careful, they might be able to leave this place without drawing the Skinchanger’s notice. Given the Wizard’s apprehension, that option is looking more attractive by the moment.

“Right, that should do it,” Tharkûn says with a ludicrous pretense at confidence. “No, actually,” he corrects himself, making Thorin’s hands twitch with the urge to draw Orcrist. “Bombur, you count as two, so you should come out alone.”

Thorin gives the Wizard a deeply unimpressed look. Really? Tharkûn believes the Skinchanger to be so volatile that something as small as this will make a difference?

The urge to order his Company to slip out the back is near irresistible.

Tharkûn ignores his disapproval completely. “Remember, wait for the signal.” With that, Tharkûn strides out the door.

“Gandalf, wait!” Bluebell exclaims while rushing after him, her hands anxiously combing through her hair in a futile attempt to get rid of all the straw tangled through it. Thorin moves to stand besides the door, positioned so he can watch the Skinchanger without being seen in return.

“What signal would that be?” Bofur’s question makes Thorin curse himself failing to ask after something so vital. Still, the Wizard, despite often acting like one, is no fool. Whatever signal he choses, it will be an obvious one.

Hand on Orcrist’s hilt, Thorin watches Tharkûn and Bluebell approach the Skinchanger, tension rising higher the nearer they are. Tharkûn and Bluebell are growing more nervous with every step they take as well. Tharkûn is actually straightening his robes, while Bluebell has given up on trying to get rid of the straw in her hair and is now brushing the worst of the hay off her clothes instead.

The Skinchanger continues chopping wood, either unaware of their approach or deliberately ignoring them. Thorin is betting on the latter.

“Good morning,” Tharkûn greets at what Thorin considers to be far too close a distance. The Wizard should have halted three steps earlier at the least.

The Skinchanger gives no reaction to the greeting, merely continues chopping wood. Deliberate ignoring it is. What a wonderful start to gaining his aid.

The Skinchanger’s lack of reaction causes Bluebell to put her hands behind her back in an effort to hide the nervous fidgeting she can no longer contain.

“Good morning!” Tharkûn repeats more insistently. This time the Skinchanger does halt his work, but the way he now grips his axe makes Thorin prepare to draw Orcrist. His reaction makes all others prepare for battle as well.

“Who are you,” the Skinchanger rumbles without turning to face them, a low growl more fit for animal than person.

Tharkûn hesitates for the briefest of moments, before he takes a deep breath and shifts his stance as though to brace for battle. Thorin draws Orcrist and signals the others to get ready to charge.

“I’m Gandalf. Gandalf the Grey.”

The Skinchanger finally turns around, and the vicious glare he gives Tharkûn makes Thorin’s every hackle rise. The Skinchanger is even baring his teeth, the expression uncannily similar to that of his beast form. “Never heard of him.”

The reply causes Thorin to be torn between anger and utter exasperation because _of course_ the Wizard kept secret the most important fact of all, why is Thorin even remotely surprised by this? Oh, Thorin doesn’t doubt that the Skinchanger holds a deep distaste for Dwarves, but that is not the greatest obstacle in gaining his aid.

The greatest obstacle is the Wizard himself. The Skinchanger spoke those words not with confusion, or even disinterest. He spoke them with bitter resentment, with the festering pain of an age old hurt that will never heal. A hurt he blames Tharkûn for.

A hurt Tharkûn is aware the Skinchanger blames him for, yet did not see fit to inform the rest of them of.

 _Wizards_.

The Skinchanger’s accusation hits home, Tharkûn’s shoulders not merely with sorrow and regret, but with true shame. Whatever the past between them, the Wizard agrees the fault was his.

“...I’m a Wizard,” Tharkûn eventually returns, apparently deciding the best course of action is to reply to the letter of the words instead of the spirit. And the Wizard has the nerve to accuse him of being tactless. “Perhaps you’ve heard of my colleague, Radagast the Brown? He resides in the Southern borders of Mirkwood–”

“What do you want,” the Skinchanger interrupts, having no patience for the Wizard’s act. At least he makes no move to attack, though he does keep gripping his axe as a weapon instead of a tool.

“Why, simply to thank you for your hospitality,” Tharkûn replies in what the Wizard believes to be a charming voice. “You may have noticed that we took refuge in your lodgings last night–”

“Who’s the little fellow?” the Skinchanger demands, once more ignoring the Wizard’s words. “She’s not a Dwarf, is she?”

Thorin scowls. Both at the way the Skinchanger delivered the question as an insult, and at the clear confirmation that the Wizard was not exaggerating how much an issue them being Dwarves will be.

On another note, just how awful is the Skinchanger’s sight? There is no conceivable way in which Bluebell could ever pass for a Dwarf.

“Of course I’m not a Dwarf,” Bluebell counters in a vaguely offended tone, but Thorin knows that to be caused by her pride in being a Hobbit, not any distaste for his kin. “I am a Hobbit. Miss Bluebell Baggins, at your service,” she finishes with a nervous courtesy.

“A Wizard and a Halfling–”

“Halfing?” Bluebell interrupts with sudden outrage, and Thorin curses her for failing to keep hold of her temper. Most of the time it takes a fair amount to rouse it, but calling her a Halfling is one of the few things that always triggers it without fail. “I am not half of anything– No, I don’t care one wit that is the Common name for Hobbits,” she snaps at Tharkûn before he can even finish saying her name, the Wizard attempting to keep her from _getting herself killed_. Honestly, who in their right mind thinks it a good idea to argue with a hostile Skinchanger? “It is insulting and offensive, and I refuse to stand by and listen to such slander. Have you no shame?” she demands of the Skinchanger, and Thorin doesn’t need to see her expression to know she is giving him her version of a fierce glare. “Do you treat all your guests like this?

Thorin and the others remain ready to charge, but mercifully, the Skinchanger still makes no move to attack. Instead, he tilts his head at too sharp an angle. While the meaning behind the gesture is difficult to read, it does not seem to be aggressive.

In fact, the Skinchanger seems almost... bemused?

“Guests? No. Intruders who bar me from my own home? That is another matter,” the Skinchanger rumbles in a voice that makes clear Thorin was not imagining the bemusement.

The retort makes Bluebell falter, indignity replaced by embarrassment. She clears her throat and her hands resume their previous fidgeting.

“Yes, that is, well,” she stumbles, before her hands still and she squares her shoulders, lifting her head with determination. “You’re right, that was incredibly rude of us. We took advantage of your hospitality, and for that, you have our deepest apologies. I would also like to extend our deepest gratitude, for without your help– well, your presence, I suppose I cannot call it true aid, seeing as we didn’t ask for it. Nevertheless, I still wish to thank you. Without you, we would’ve been run down by Orcs, and I shudder to think of what might have happened.”

Thorin feels the slightest bit more at ease as Bluebell’s chatter causes the Skinchanger to loosen his grip on his axe, just a little. The Skinchanger could still attack in an instant of course, but the odds of that happening are now a fraction lower than before.

“And how did a Wizard and a Hobbit,” the Skinchanger emphasizes to Bluebell with another animalistic tilt of his head. “–come to be chased by Orcs?”

“Oh, we’ve had a bad time of it,” Tharkûn replies with cheerful plomp, apparently figuring the greatest danger is over now.

The vicious snarl the Skinchanger gives him proves this assumption wrong.

“An awful time, really,” Bluebell confirms with an earnest nod, deliberately drawing the Skinchanger’s attention back to her. Good. By now, it has become more than clear that Tharkûn has no idea on how to handle the Skinchanger. “Even before the Orcs, there was the Goblin ambush and–”

“What did you go near Goblins for?” the Skinchanger interrupts her, but unlike with Tharkûn, it seems motivated by curiosity instead of hostility. “Stupid thing to do.”

“You are absolutely right,” Tharkûn agrees with a placating gesture, and Thorin desperately wishes the Wizard would have the sense to keep his mouth shut. Whenever he speaks, he only succeeds in making things worse. As evidenced by the Skinchanger giving him another heated glare.

“There it is!” Bofur whisper shouts, mistaking the meaning behind Tharkûn’s gesture. “Go, go!”

Balin and Dwalin both raise a questioning brow at him, and Thorin confirms Bofur’s order with a nod. While Tharkûn gave no signal, it has become more than obvious that Thorin cannot trust the Wizard in the slightest when it comes to the Skinchanger. It has also become obvious that Tharkûn is trying to gain the Skinchanger’s aid without revealing the rest of them, a plan so moronic Thorin is incapable of comprehending how the Wizard even came up with it. Should Tharkûn succeed, an outcome more unlikely with every word out of the Wizard’s mouth, he is acting as though there is no possibility of the Skinchanger going back on this decision after he realizes the Wizard has tricked him into offering aid to Dwarves.

It is far better to reveal themselves before that happens.

Balin and Dwalin quickly place their visible weapons aside. The effect on Dwalin is immediate, every part of him radiating discomfort despite the two blades still hidden on his person.

With a grimly determined expression, Dwalin marches outside. Balin follows after him, posture at ease in a way Thorin knows to be false only because of how well he knows his old friend.

When Dwalin and Balin enter the Skinchanger’s sight, the Skinchanger snarls and lifts his axe as though to attack. Thorin barely manages to resist ordering the others to charge, waiting for the Skinchanger’s next move instead.

“Dwalin,” Dwalin introduces, before aiming a curt nod in Balin’s direction. “Balin.”

The angle they’re standing at lets Thorin make out the peaceful smile Balin sends the Skinchanger. Balin even gives a jaunty wave, attempting to appear as harmless as possible.

Tharkûn, who turned around to watch Dwalin and Balin, aims a fierce glare at where Thorin is hiding. Thorin replies with a deeply unimpressed look. Tharkûn is acting like a complete and utter fool, meaning the Wizard has no right whatsoever to criticize of his decision.

Tharkûn takes a fortifying breath and summons another smile for their host, turning around to face the Skinchanger once more. The Skinchanger stops glaring at Dwalin and Balin so he can snarl at Tharkûn instead.

“Yes, I ah, I must confess. Several of our group are, in fact... Dwarves,” Tharkûn finishes with an audible wince.

“Do you call two, several?” the Skinchanger growls, still making no move to attack. Yet.

“Well uh, when you put it that way...” Tharkûn fumbles, usual eloquence nowhere to be found.

“Gandalf, where are your manners,” Bluebell chides with a reprimanding tap to the Wizard’s legs, her voice revealing her own nervousness has not abated in the slightest. “You haven’t even properly introduced them. For that matter, you haven’t introduced our host yet, either.”

“You are absolutely right, my dear,” Tharkûn replies with relief, regaining his usual eloquence. “May I present beorn, Chieftain of the Beornings. Beorn, these are Balin and Dwalin, sons of Fundin,” he finishes with an introductory wave.

“Go,” Bofur orders, once again misinterpreting what the gesture means. Once again, Thorin nods his confirmation of the order, and Oin and Gloin waste no time in putting down their weapons and marching outside.

It is more than a little satisfying to see Tharkûn’s shoulders slump with despairing exasperation. The Wizard deserves to be on the opposite end of the feeling for once.

Tharkûn soon rallies himself, and after a quick glance behind him, he continues introductions in what he considers to be a charming voice. “And here are some more of our happy troop. Oin and Gloin, sons of Groin.”

The Skinchanger’s snarl is not comforting in the slightest, but at least it is not as fierce as his previous ones. “Do you call six, a troop?”

The words make Tharkûn falter, a hand flailing through the air before he manages to regain control.

“Go.”

Naturally, Bofur misinterprets the gesture yet again. Still, the Skinchanger’s question does offer the natural opportunity for more to show themselves.

Dori and Ori march outside. “Dori and Ori, sons of Orin, at your service,” Dori introduces with a nervous bow, Ori copying the gesture.

“I don’t want your service,” the Skinchanger snarls, previous aggression back in full force.

“Absolutely understandable,” Tharkûn attempts to soothe with a placating gesture. Which, of course, Bofur misinterprets.

“Go.”

While the Skinchanger’s hostility has returned in full, Thorin still thinks it best to reveal themselves as soon as possible. Despite his reluctance to do so, he nods permission once more. This time, Fili and Kili march outside. Thorin’s tension rises even higher as he watches his sister-sons enter the Skinchanger’s line of sight. It rises even higher as the Skinchanger lets out a low growl, more felt than seen. But he still makes no move to attack.

Thorin prays he is not imagining that the Skinchanger seems more resigned than anything else.

“Ah, yes,” Tharkûn says, attempting and failing to hide an audible grimace. “Fili and Kili, sons of Vili.”

The Skinchanger tilts his head at too sharp an angle, gaze flickering over his sister-sons braids, making Thorin grip Orcrist even tighter. Fortunately, the Skinchanger still makes no move to attack.

Thorin softly orders Bofur to get off the stool. Seeing as there are so few left, it is better for him to prepare to show himself instead of misinterpreting Tharkûn’s every gesture.

“What are you, a traveling circus?” the Skinchanger rumbles in a voice equal parts disgusted and exasperated. Thorin himself feels a burst of exasperation as well when Bofur stumbles in his haste to join the others and his fall pushes Nori, Bifur, Bombur and himself out the door.

Tharkûn’s shoulders slump with open despair. “And these are Nori, son of Orin, Bifur, son of Thimbur, and Bofur and Bombur, sons of Domur,” he says, no longer attempting to hide his misery.

The Skinchangers let out a low grow, but at least he refrains from snarling. “Is that it? Are there any more of you?”

Thorin supposes that is his cue to show himself. He sets his Shield and Orcrist aside and enters the Skinchanger’s line of sight. When he does, the Skinchanger’s starts baring his teeth, before his eyes land on his ancestral braids and his aggression is replaced by dawning recognition. Thorin is unsure whether this recognition is a beneficial sign or not. Probably not.

“And finally, I present the leader of our Company, Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain.”

The words are followed by a silence that makes Thorin’s hands twitch with the urge to hold any kind of weapon. He is by far the only one affected, all others growing more ill at ease as well.

“...You will follow me inside, and you will tell me why you have brought Orcs onto my lands.”

The words make some of his tension fade away. It is not an offer of help, is not even a guarantee of safety from the Skinchanger himself. But it is not an open threat. Given the Wizard’s blundering, that is the best they can hope for.

It remains to be seen how long this lack of hostility will remain.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos always brighten my day, comments even more so :)
> 
> My [tumblr](https://loekas.tumblr.com/)


End file.
